


Lemon Tree

by FloraOne



Category: Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon
Genre: F/M, I started writing a series of smut fanfics, NSFW, Smut, Tasteful Smut, also this has been on FF for weeks, and tasteful, at least i hope so, bringing my degree to something lolol, but I forgot to post it here, respectful, with the goal of being sex positive
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-05-21 13:05:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14915922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FloraOne/pseuds/FloraOne
Summary: Series of nsfw Usamamo short stories. Sexuality can be a very thrilling, and very frightening thing. And it's definitely a challenge. Sometimes canon, sometimes AU, sometimes in between.This was posted only on FF  previously. I'm now putting everything I've been working on up here on AO3, as well!





	1. Inch By Inch

**Author's Note:**

> So, here we are guys. I'm starting this very nsfw series. But, lemme get one thing straight: These aren't necessarily PWPs. This first one, for one, definitely isn't.
> 
> Sexuality is a powerful, interesting thing. As a plot device, and psychologically. And there is the tidbit that it plays a huge role in our contentment and happiness, whether or not we live it in a way that fits us individually.
> 
> So, I'm gonna play around with sex in this series. Sometimes it's gonna end up being sexy, but not always. I'm gonna explore it in canon and outside of it, in fully new AUs and probably even within already established fanfic universes. We'll see!
> 
> One thing for sure, tough – you'll have to give me time with this series. This won't be a regular update, because writing smut is the most challenging thing out there. So, this will be updated whenever inspiration hits, and when I feel it's meaningful, and not on a schedule.
> 
> For this first one, I added an explanation in the end notes – where I'm coming from with this one. Because it's the answer to a long rant I ranted very rantily on tumblr ;)
> 
> Let's just say so much: This is about Mamoru's sexual awakening.

He had always been a little… uptight with things. Definitely inhibited. Ashamed. A prude, he'd overheard Minako betitle him once, with Usako protesting his cause, as he joined them at the Fruit Parlor after a late class, and found them talking sex, only to pretend he hadn't heard.

And he was, he supposed. Way more uptight than any boy his age that he knew, anyway. Not that he'd know firsthand, though, of course – it wasn't the kind of topic he would ever talk about... To anyone.

And so, he could see how Usako would grow frustrated at one point, even when she would never ever say so, yet... he _was_ still a teenager, and however uncomfortable the topic made him, and however mortified he felt when showing even minimal affection in public… Inside (or when he just even closed his eyes, really) it was a different thing altogether.

He was _definitely_ not lacking in desire.

He just didn't know how to let go. How to not freeze even at the thought.

Like that one time, when they'd fallen asleep in the middle of the day on top of his comforter. They'd been together for so long at this point that it was second nature. He couldn't quite remember which enemy had attacked that day, only that they'd been so exhausted that sleep had lured them both in, even when he had papers to write and she exams to prepare for…

And he'd woken up with his hand cradling one of her breasts, his fingers clutching the thin fabric of her blouse, slipping across her skin, warm and soft even through the barrier.

He'd been beyond mortified. His heart had started hammering, even when his blood had decided to relocate in frightening speed, and yet he couldn't will his hand away. Even more so, when he'd discovered she'd been long awake, heartbeat hammering beneath his fingertips, pressing her legs together and her bum against him... and he _was_ a teenage boy, he couldn't deny it, and when she started grinding back against him, and her own hand had started wandering, he had to jump from the bed with a shuddered groan because he was hard and embarrassed and a fish out of water, and what the hell was he supposed to _do_ in these situations?

She hadn't said anything. Or more specifically, she's said a lot, but hadn't commented on the things that had petrified him so. She'd apologized, even when he saw the flush of her skin and the way she kept her knees together too tightly. Had told him it was alright, she wasn't asking anything, he had all the time he needed.

It had been absolutely what he'd needed to hear, and at the same time wasn't at all.

He'd assured her that he _wanted_ to… but he didn't know how.

She'd nodded, with a small smile. Had asked him if she was allowed to try.

He'd said yes, but please not right now, and she'd nodded and smiled and made him go out to the park with her instead. Somewhere public, somewhere where it was ok not to touch, and he was grateful and frustrated at the same time.

Because he wanted to touch her. He wanted to be enveloped by her. And he wanted so badly to know how to touch without feeling like this.

It was then that the dreams had started. Tormenting him night after night with tantalizing images of glorious golden hair spilling down her naked back and threading through his fingers, of his hands digging into her thighs and belly and breasts, of desire like a flood that shuddered through him as he pushed into from every angle possible, of words she whispered in his ears and that delicious, addictive feeling of losing himself in her that scared him so much.

He'd wake up with his erection already in his fist, and let go of it as if burned with a groan, only to hop into the shower and will it painfully away with the cold and shocking spray of water, because he didn't know what to do and he was so frightfully jealous of this person he was in his dreams.

This person, who could allow all these feelings in himself, who knew what to do, who wasn't him, even when he so desperately wanted to be him.

And how the next time – weeks later - that they had slept like this, and he lay spooned against her on top of his comforter like so many times before, yet it didn't feel natural anymore, he woke again with his hand where is wasn't supposed to be. And it was Usagi's hand that not only kept his in place, but lifted her shirt and slid his hand with a trembling touch into the fabric of her bra.

It felt as if his whole being were focused on the feel of the warm, soft, trembling flesh, and the beat of her hammering heart beneath his palm, and the sensation of her nipple hardening against his fingertips, and he had no time to jump and run, he came with a shudder, immediately, because it was too much and he wasn't used to it, and was mortified even when she gasped his name with that desperate hitch in her voice, when he finally jumped away too late.

She didn't comment, when he returned with a new set of PJs, and he breathed down her neck and held her in that way he usually did whenever he was so obviously frustrated with himself. She just took the hand that felt as if the feeling of her soft breast was scorched into it, and kissed his palm with the softest, gentlest touch of her lips, and he once again didn't know how he deserved her.

But afterwards – when those dreams in which he wasn't him, in which he could not only touch but kiss and lick and tease those rosy, soft peaks until she cried out for more, and he could give it – made him wake up rock hard and panting, and he fled into the shower like always, he didn't let the water take care of business.

It wasn't the first time he'd touched himself, obviously. It was also far from the first time he'd touched himself with her in his mind.

But it still held a lot of firsts, anyway. The first time he did it in uncomfortably bright light. The first time he didn't try to not do it. The first time he did it in a room where he could just glance across the small space and see himself do it in the reflection of his bathroom mirror, his fist pumping twitching, weeping flesh between his thighs as his breath came in labored puffs through stretched, tense lips. The first time he did it while she was in his apartment, sleeping in the next room.

And so he jerked off with her name on his lips and his mind where he swore not to go, but couldn't keep it from going anyway, and he came in a hot, white, exhilaratingly exquisite flash against the white tile, faster than he would ever admit - and it opened the door to repeat performances more often than not in the following months.

It _definitely_ wasn't the lack of desire. In fact, the longer this went on, the more he felt consumed by it. As if a switch in his brain had been flicked and now his entire being felt this intense hunger for something he did not know how to go about at all.

It was difficult for him, to say the least. He'd barely mastered not flinching anytime someone other than Usako hugged him. It felt weird – too intimate. A sort of contact he had never known, didn't know how to react. What was proper, what was not. He'd grown up avoiding any sort of bodily contact – a shield meant to protect him from two things; reminders of the fact that he had not known this sort of affection in his life, and his very physically embodied powers that had always done things with his touch that he hadn't known how to control for most of his life.

It wasn't that he didn't enjoy a hug. It wasn't that he'd not always yearned for one. And it wasn't either, that the prospect of getting physical with the woman that had filled his thoughts for not one but two lifetimes wasn't anything but thrilling – but it reminded him painfully of the head start that anyone else had in the department of intimacy.

Not to mention that he was fully aware of the fact that all the things he had learned about sexuality - secondhand and through society – and all the things a man was supposed to like and do and enjoy in bed, seemed somehow not to be exactly … respectful. Or stress-free, either.

He'd come to just the touch of her breast like a thirteen year old. How the hell was he supposed to last a night at the first try?

And although he knew she would be nothing but patient with him, the longer this dragged out, the higher the expectation must be, right? How could they not be? And with that, he got more stressed. To the point that even when he was rock hard whenever he continued touching himself in the showers, he no longer came.

Usagi didn't pressure him. Not at all. Not in the slightest. But when he once again ran in on them talking sex – or, more specific, masturbation – and heard Minako advertising her favorite brand of vibrator even when Usagi didn't let anything slip of what happened in his bedroom – or not – he grew so frustrated with himself he could barely breathe.

Why couldn't he just…

It was that evening, when she sat in his lap and the kisses grew heated, that he swallowed all his feelings of inadequacy and forced himself to touch her _there_ , rubbing tentatively across the fabric of her panties. Yet even as her eyes widened in surprise and desire, and her breath quickened and her nose scrunched up in that mesmerizing way like so… she ripped his hand away once her gaze flicked up to him and she saw the look in his eyes.

She cradled his face and whispered, even as she rained those soft, little Usagi kisses on his cheeks and forehead. That he didn't need to do this for her. She was ok. She wasn't asking anything. He had all the time in the world.

He shook his head, whispered back – he needed to learn how to touch. He wanted nothing more than to learn how to touch. He needed to give her this.

And when his hand snaked back down under her skirt and into her panties and spread the warm and soaking fluid across trembling, fluttering, slippery skin, as it coated his fingers more and more, it was the first time that he thought that maybe he could do this, as she came undone beneath his fingers, gasping wildly, hands clawing at his arm and into the fabric of his crisp and clean white button down shirt, and he watched her scrunch her face up in that incredibly sexy way that drove straight into him and made him rock against her, watched her shudder as she arched her back, watched the sweat pool in her collar bone just above the hem of her dress, even as her toes curled and he leaned over to catch the drop of moisture with his tongue.

Afterwards, when he held her as her breathing slowed, he felt like gloating. Proud in a way he had not known before, even when in the back of his mind that feeling of shame he was so well-acquainted with still lingered.

He shot it down, focused on the pride, the weird sense of victory in a battle he knew he waged only with himself, and the salty taste of her skin still on his lips, and asked if he could try something.

"Of course," she shot out, wide-eyed and expectant, before his trembling hands unbuckled his belt, wincing whenever his hands brushed against the very evident and very uncomfortably confined bulge in his pants.

But when he saw her eyes, so wide and expectant, glued to his hands, the way she bit her lip in anticipation… and it made him suddenly terrified of not pleasing her, of not… working.

The bulge disappeared with the jump in is heartbeat, and he swallowed thickly, unable to look her in the eye, when he pushed the flap of his belt back into the buckle and turned his back to her as he slumped with a heavy sigh on the foot of the bed, his hands finding his hair in frustration.

She picked up her mantra. _It's ok. We're ok. You have all the time you need._

But he flinched away, ashamed, when her hand touched his shoulder from behind him. And her voice hitched when he did.

"Tell me what I can do," she whispered to his back, and he swallowed.

There was nothing _she_ could do. This was his fault. He was the one who didn't know how to… who wasn't what… He shook his head.

"Is it me?" she asked in a small voice. "Do you not… I mean…"

He whirled around to her in shock. Appalled that she could even consider such a thing, and his heart broke when he saw how her arms had been slung around her knees, how she looked so small and unsure.

He crawled up the bed, sat next to her, but when he tried to talk he had to stop, and wrung his fingers in his lap.

He told her of the dreams, then. The tips of his ears growing hot and red he told her of what she did to him on a nightly basis. How sometimes, even when she was here, he'd sneak out into the shower and… what he did there.

He'd never stuttered so much in his life, never felt so much like burning, never felt so much like words were the wrong descriptors, and so many of them missing or…just too plain _weird_ and uncomfortable to use.

And even when he saw the way she pressed her knees together, once more, and her breath became erratic while he talked, he forced himself to go on. To share.

How terrified he was. Wasn't a man supposed to be… cool and on top of this? Wasn't he supposed to work? Like a confident, hard beast that could bend her over and do to her… what he was supposed to do? Wasn't this how it was supposed to work?

She'd took his hands then. Wrapped her soft, gentle fingers around his larger ones in a way that felt like a cocoon, and smiled that sad, little, confident and gentle smile he'd seen her use so often, when her heart went out to stray cats and pained friends and crying strangers and suffering enemies. A smile that was uniquely Usagi.

She told him that she didn't want something like that. She only wanted him.

They didn't have sex. Not for a while, anyway. But, due to her gentle patience and that compassionate smile, somehow, he'd had the guts so that they'd come closer and closer in tiny steps in his own hungry pace that still felt right but that got bigger and broader and exhilarating to the point where he clung himself to definitions and denial… Because, really, it _was_ sex when she moaned and writhed as you ate her dry, even if you never put your cock where it ached so hard to be, wasn't it? When you'd learned to make her come with just a flick of your teeth against her clit, of your precisely placed knuckles in her insides, through her clothes or with your lips coated in her essence. When the only barrier between the two of you was your own underwear, and when you'd learned to touch in many different ways that made her howl your name?

And how it was only in the beginning that he ground against the couch, as her thighs locked around his cheeks, pinning him in place, and he came into his pants, with an agonized whimper into her wet and dripping flesh, because it was all too much.

But it was that final barrier that took the longest to fall. That final step to truly and completely lay himself bare, both in the literal and metaphorical sense.

She'd stroked him through his pants at first, his erection jutting against her with every touch that made her giggle and the situation feel suddenly free, and later through his boxer briefs. She always asked first, and as much as the jut of fear whispered a no through his mind, the word was not in his vocabulary when her hands were against him, and he was thankful she kept within the line that he needed, but that he himself forgot in times like this where she would have only needed to ask and he would have been bare and inside of her within the moment.

But she knew him. And she knew when to ask and when not to. Knew when his mind was too absent to make decisions, and where his line was even when he forgot it, because he tended even to forget his own name at her touch. And so, the fabric barrier stayed even as he rocked his hips against her hand when she rubbed him through it in a way that made him lose his mind and will.

Or when it was no longer her hand that he rocked against, but her wet sex. And he could just make out her warmth through his fabric shield, and how her whimper turned needier with every upward flick, and the way he always choked around the frenzied torture that was feeling the way he slipped in just that little bit, fabric and all.

The way he pushed and pushed and she would buck back up, his tip twitching and causing him to scream when the fabric became coated in her wetness, but wouldn't give.

And how they both came with their cries swallowed in each other's mouths, humping against each other in starved rhythms, skin slipping against one another in the humid, August heat.

Until autumn brought dry air and their humping was not so dry anymore, and he finally slipped in for real – with a different barrier of the condom kind, and to the soundtrack of her relieved cry and trembling, fierce and guttural groans.

But it was a conversation in hushed tones one night that made that possible, and no touch.

When she'd asked him to talk through the fear and the shame one last time, and how she undressed in the dark silence, slowly, with her eyes never leaving his, but did not touch, to mirror the stripped feeling in his heart, when he had to speak of things he never learned to share.

And somehow she got him to talk, again, in a way that felt like vomiting all the scars on his heart.

How he, deep down, didn't feel like he deserved her. Didn't feel like he could ever do her justice.

And how it petrified him. How he had always been uptight, reserved, but this was so much worse. How, the moment he thought about sex, now, he was so sure he would not be enough. How it consumed his every thought.

And how every touch drove it home, made the fear lock down and spread until he could feel nothing else.

She'd swallowed and frowned at him in thought, sitting cross-legged in front of him in a way that suggested she'd completely forgotten how very naked she was, and that made his blush so much more intense while driving the point home how free she was with this and how tense he.

"But," she'd said, cocking her head to the side, baring her slender neck, "shouldn't you know best that touch is not for focusing on what's in yourself?"

He blinked at her. Didn't understand her at first, until he did.

His heart started hammering against his chest when he understood, and reached out to touch.

And how, for the first time since he'd started obsessing over this, he felt it again. The flutter of her emotions under his fingertips. Strong and tender and steady and for him.

How could he have forgotten that?

He sprang up on his legs, brought his other hand to her skin in a sudden, wondrous movement that made her giggle that light, airy whisper of vibrating air against his skin as he drove forward and stroked his cheek against hers, and felt the warm slip of her soft skin against his, felt the excitement and sunshine and longing that it whispered through his mind. All the tales her skin had to tell him.

He trembled when she took his hand and she pushed it lower, across the soft, pliant and utterly distracting curve of her belly, to the course curls beneath. Gasped when he felt the delirium she felt under his fingertips when he stroked across wet folds, the craving waves in her howling blood, once he allowed himself to connect.

It was so easy now to let his fear go. So easy now that he didn't forget that he could drown in her. That this was … more.

How could he have forgotten that?

And that intense love and acceptance that spoke through every stroke of her hand and every kiss she peppered on his neck and stomach and thigh.

How he felt it, suddenly. It was enough. He had all the time in the world. She was here, she was ok with this, she was content.

And how it hadn't been time at all, that he'd needed. But touch – without his fear whispering through his mind to taint it. How he suddenly did not need time when he had her.

And how he finally felt the electricity in between them, the need to feel more, make her feel more, not because he needed to reassure himself, not because he needed to prove something, not because he needed to succeed, but because he couldn't get enough.

The thrill of the intense need that fluttered like fog between them, coating them completely.

The rumble of his delirious moans when his barrier was no longer needed, the maddening need he suddenly felt for _more_. _More_.

How it could suddenly not come fast enough.

There had been no words, just looks and breathless nods and silent understanding when she'd bent over and snaked her hand into the pocket of her crumbled dress on the floor, producing the little foil packaging from it, and he needed to hiss the air through his teeth and scrunch his eyes shut when she rolled it on him, her fingers gliding, strong and sure and gripping, across twitching veins and pulsing skin.

How she'd bent backwards on the bed, hooded blue eyes never leaving his, and spread her legs.

The little nod, reassuring him, when his adam's apple bopped and his erection, too, and he felt her heat even through the condom, when he started rubbing himself against the wetness until she dug her fingers into his biceps and pulled at him even when she bucked her hips and arched her back and rolled her eyes back into her head.

She didn't demand, or tell him to finally finally, finally slip inside. She didn't say anything at all, even when he felt it screaming on her skin. She didn't say it, because she didn't ask anything of him. She only wanted what he was willing to give.

Yet her cry was more of a broken howl when he finally pushed inside. When he finally felt the exquisite agony of slipping home, stretching her out and filling her up, just to push back in, again and again, a little harder, a little _more_.

It had been a while until they'd finally had sex, indeed. But the wait made for the kind of raw, excessive and intense first night that he wouldn't have dared to hope for.

Though the first time he'd felt her lips around his tip was another story altogether.


	2. Would You Like To Buy An O?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to my bae-ta, Uglygreenjacket. You da best, girl.
> 
> So... lemme get some things straight, first. This will be the Teach Usagi Sex trope. But in my twist. And this will be neither Mamoru The Porn Star nor Usagi The Innocent Flower. This will, instead, be The Closing Of the Orgasm-Gap, which everyone of you who's been reading my tumblr for a while will know I'm pretty passionate about. And, this will be realistic sex. This will not be steel-rods and marathon romps, this will be the kind of sex that we all can have - the kind that makes female orgasms. Delicious, intense, female orgasms.
> 
> I wrote this for someone. You know who you are. Thank you for being so very open on this topic with me, for all your valuable input, and I hope this fic is all you imagined it to be. I poured every last ounce of knowledge I ever gained on the topic into this – be it through books, classes, feminist essays, courses or intervention congresses on the topic (which mostly always burns down to this: communication and self-exploration!) and gave it my own flavor. Thank you so much for giving me the opportunity to do this for you, and trusting me with this!
> 
> One last note on Mamoru's apartment: I'm going with the one room version, here. How it at least looked in the first arc of crystal (I know that changed by Infinity, and anime!Mamoru's apartment looked different all the time, too - but ALSO had his bed in that one big room) - anyway, y'know - big room and big windows and big bed at the end just by the window.
> 
> Oh, and also, AU setting, btw. But you guys know I like my AUs very close to canon ;)

"I know a guy," had been Rei's offhanded words, as she'd gotten up and left the table, glossy, ridiculously perfect hair getting flicked behind her shoulder as she left.

Usagi's breath had stuck in her throat. She hadn't agreed to this, even when Minako and Mako-chan had both already whooped all around the table and spooked all the other patrons currently trying to eat their fluffy, ridiculously perfect pancakes in peace.

Now, different day, different restaurant, Usagi sat in the back of the darkly lit izakaya, her legs falling asleep under her butt on the plush tatami mat, as she wiggled her toes in her pink, ruffle-y rabbit socks that she wondered if they weren't too childish for... such an occasion, and tapped her hands nervously against her phone.

 _'_ _Be on time'_ , Rei's text, still open, read. Beneath that an address and the details to a table, reserved under her name.

What the hell had she agreed to, here?

She hadn't agreed to this, not really, and yet… for whatever reason, for what must have been only like, the third time in her twenty six year long life, Usagi had not only been on time, she had been half an hour early, and dressed in her chic, dark pencil skirt and that one, powder colored silk blouse - the one that hugged her skin in just the right spots, but wasn't too... She shook her head, exhaled forcibly, and checked the time.

7:56.

Her heart hammered against her ribs and she straightened up her spine involuntarily when the curtains of the entrance, far across the noisy room, were pushed aside and a tall man entered. Tailored suit, top buttons undone, cheeky smirk, white teeth, sexy… and her heart hammered some more.

Before deflating with a sigh and slumping shoulders, when he waved to a group of men off to the side, who greeted him with loud choruses of 'Kanpai!', and raised glasses of beer and Highballs.

She shook her head again. Squeezed her eyes shut. Who was she kidding? What was she doing here? What had she been THINKING, admitting at their weekly Sunday lunch together that she had never had an orgasm during sex, with Minako AND Rei at the table? How could she have been so stupid?

And then she jumped, startled, by a voice she would recognize anywhere, that washed over her like arrogant, condescending ... wait.

"Odango Atama,"

Her eyes whipped up, shocked, and met his dancing, smirking ones.

Her hands curled around her phone, ready to smash it into the innocent table, as if Rei's text could feel the pain.

" _'I know a guy'_?!" Usagi scoffed incredulously, eyebrows raised, too loud.

Mamoru's smirk faltered a little, as he knelt to remove his shoes, and stepped up onto the little platform.

Was this a joke? Usagi blinked. Was Rei pulling her leg? Setting her up with the _only_ guy who…

When Mamoru knelt on the tatami mat, folding his ridiculously long legs underneath the low table, Usagi was still too shocked to even yell at him. Or… you know, one of those things that she used to do when they were teenagers and riled each other up in the streets of Juuban.

He looked at her, those gorgeous dark blue eyes she'd first dreamt of when she was fifteen, and had to swallow.

He hadn't said anything, either, and it was getting uncomfortable, here in the loud, cheerfully crowded izakaya, as she stared dumbly at the one guy who had gotten away. Literally.

He swallowed, ran a hand through that obnoxiously silky hair like he used to do when he was nervous, swallowed, and raised a hand, shouting – moderately loudly, this place was packed – to get the waiter's attention, who rushed over to them immediately.

Usagi was still staring, looking intently at Mamoru's lips as he spoke, but not listening. Were they all being serious? Was Mamoru actually here to… to…?

She jerked up, mumbled another order – she needed _food_ , this was a _food_ kind of situation, and fast – when Mamoru's mentioning of her name startled her out of her thoughts and back to the waiter. A lanky, short but cute guy, a little younger than her, maybe, who rushed away as quickly as he came to get their order ready. Usagi didn't even really know what she'd asked to get.

Once he was gone, though, Mamoru's eyes – seemingly reluctantly? Why was he _here_ , then? – met hers, and he swallowed once more.

Usagi blinked when she realized she'd been glaring at him.

She shook her head, shook out of it, and resisted the urge to rub her hands across her face.

"Why are you here?" she asked instead.

Mamoru's instant blush at her question at least answered for him – even when he cleared his throat and obviously struggled to find an answer.

"I – I mean Rei called and said – said that – I mean, you…" He shook his head, broke off.

Usagi nodded, a little quickly, eyes a little wide. Right. Damn would she kill Rei next time she saw her.

She grabbed her glass a little tighter, suddenly wishing it was alcohol and not strawberry soda. "And you came?" she asked, and cringed at her choice of words.

His blush intensified and he shrugged, and she cursed the fact that it looked adorable.

So, she had babbled out at Sunday lunch, while Minako was talking bad sex experience and how awful the guy had been in bed and how she'd upped and left halfway through, that she had never had an orgasm during sex. And Rei just went and brought this info to the one guy she'd really fallen for during high school, the one that had taken her forever to get over, to come fix the situation? And he just _agreed_?

She frowned, ready to ask again, when the waiter arrived, and placed two double sized plates of yakitori and grilled mochi mochi cheese in front of her, and poured Sake from one of those rather tiny but ornate, green 330ml bottles into a small glass in front of Mamoru, overflowing it into the little wooden box, before placing the bottle on the table.

Her frown deepened. Figures. She should have ordered that, too.

"Why'd you agree to come?" she asked, once their waiter was out of earshot, a little breathlessly. The words came out, she had no control over them.

His eyes were startled. He blinked, his cheeks still that adorable rosy hue. His teeth brushed his lower lip before he spoke, just a moment, just briefly.

His eyes were just a little bit wide.

"I was your first kiss, wasn't I?" he said, and her heart stumbled over the reminder. "Seems only..." He cringed, apologetically. "Sorry that sounds..." He shook his head.

Her heart hammered. _Thump, thump, thump_ , right out of her chest.

It did seem... feel... right.

Mamoru took a rather long sip of his drink.

The group next to them, one empty table of a gap between – all in suits and costumes with loosened ties in what seemed to be an after-work get together – roared in laughter and upped their volume as someone shouted a boisterous story across the group that washed over both of them.

Usagi exhaled a shaky breath, grabbed a yakitori stick, and did the only thing she could think of. She excused herself to get to the bathroom.

Mamoru blinked at her, even when she was already getting up and away.

She felt a little comical, how she bit all the chicken pieces off the skewer all at once. Pushed it, in passing, into the little bamboo holders for them at the counter, and stomped, one frustrated chew per quick stride, into the little, darkly painted unisex bathroom behind the curtain, sat on the lowered toilet seat, and hacked into her phone.

 _WTF. Why would you set me up on a sex date with MAMORU-BAKA?!_ Usagi grunted when she pushed at the 'send' button.

To her surprise, her phone lit up right away.

_It's an orgasm date. Not a sex date. Get back out there._

Usagi pretty much growled at her phone, as if Rei could hear it, and started cursing, before slumping back against the water canister.

Chiba Mamoru. Usagi sighed, closed her eyes, willed the one image back up that she'd tried to forget so many times, the one that had haunted her dreams.

Teasing, teasing, teasing – for _years_ , and then… And then _that_ night. Dangling feet over the rim of the fountain, _their_ fountain. The one she would always, so, so often, run into him at _their_ park, with the little clock tower in the middle. Water that slowly soaked the hem of her skirt, but it was a warm, humid night and he was there and she didn't care. When they'd sat and talked and teased and giggled, and they'd just... stayed, even when the moon came out, and her heart had pounded so hard when she'd admitted to herself why her blood started to boil whenever he was near, and why her very skin started to sizzle when he looked at her like... so.

And how … hours later, she'd scooted over a little closer, hammering heart and all, and slipped her hand into his on the not-so-cool-stone of the fountain. And how she'd slipped down, and into the fountain, and his hands were pressed to the back of her neck and his lips were on her.

They both got soaked, and she drowned. It had been her first kiss. Her best kiss.

He'd walked her home, hands trembling, not speaking.

The day afterwards she'd found out that he was leaving for Harvard. She'd cried for a day.

She hadn't answered the phone when he called. Walked past him when he stood in front of her school gates the day after that. She didn't go to his farewell party at the Crown, a month after that.

And then the years flew, because time was weird like that and she suddenly had to start wearing smart looking clothing for work, and he was back, and they pretended they barely knew each other. At least she did. She was in a relationship, when she'd first learned he'd returned, a couple years ago. And nothing ever happened between them but a first kiss and dreams of more that never were to be.

They'd passed orbits sometimes. Nodding to each other at parties they both attended. Sometimes he came up in conversation. She knew he did his residency in the same hospital Ami did. They were in the same study group, had been since their state exams. Once every few months he went for tea with Rei.

Rei was the only person in the world who knew – because Usagi had been so drunk at that one party the girls had thrown her to cheer her up, in her and Mina's apartment, after she'd broken up with her ex. The girls had all been asleep but Rei, and it had slipped out –

Rei was the only person in the world who knew it was Mamoru's face, and that kiss in the fountain, that she thought about whenever she touched herself.

Usagi exhaled, deeply. Bent forward and hung her head between her legs. Breathe in, breathe out.

Sex with Chiba Mamoru. It was the one sexual fantasy she knew she had. And even if she'd need a lifetime to get over him this time…

She inhaled, steeled her shoulders.

Mamoru's hand was back in his hair when she returned. He jumped, just a little bit, when she let herself drop back onto the tatami mat and reached for his glass in one movement.

It shook a little, and some of the Sake splashed onto the table when she took a big gulp of it and placed it back in front of him.

"Listen, Usagi," Mamoru had started to say. "If you don't—"

She interrupted him.

"Back in high school, Minako and I bought this book together," Usagi said, and Mamoru blinked. "It was called ' _The perfect lover: How you make him wild'_. We wrapped it in blank paper so no one would see what we read, so we could read it in turns while the others thought we were studying for our final exams."

Mamoru snorted softly and rolled his eyes, even when he leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table so he could hear better, and Usagi could talk a little quieter, ears a pink tint.

"It was full of tips," Usagi continued, "on how to give the best blow jobs, how to get rid of your gag reflex, which yoga lessons to do so you could perform the weirdest positions, how to tone your body so you would look _irresistible_ for him, and which positions and things to avoid because they make you look less attractive. And we ate it all up."

Mamoru frowned, blinking a little.

"It didn't even occur to us how stupid it was to read a book on how to give guys good orgasms, instead of learning how to give ourselves good orgasms. We didn't question it," Usagi said. "And we bought more. Lots of glossy magazines for women that taught us in which underwear we would look sexiest for him, sex tips on how to be a 'sex goddess.'…" This time Usagi snorted, too. "There was this one article that promised the "hottest sex you will ever have" and it was something where you had to half kneel, half hover, and ignore the shaking muscles in your thighs. Next to it were fitness tips on how to train yourself to endure it better, and a chart on how many calories you would lose with it, and that it would be so worth it, because _he would_ _just love us for it_."

Mamoru's frown deepened, and he lifted his glass back to his lips for a long, slow sip, but said nothing.

Usagi picked a cheese mochi off her skewer, and ate it in one bite, chewing while she talked on. "The first time I had sex," she continued, mouth full, and blinked briefly as he stiffened a little, "I was so obsessed with thoughts of if I was doing this right, if I was performing the way I was supposed to, if my tongue was swirling the way it was meant to, if he was finding the lingerie I'd picked sexy enough, I was too busy to even register any feeling at all." Usagi shrugged. "It wasn't _bad_ , really. But it really wasn't good at all, either. It was… empty. It was…" she frowned, saw Mamoru swallow as she searched for a word.

"…a performance?" she finished with a cringe, and he nodded.

"Anyway," Usagi cleared her throat. "What I'm saying is… they don't exactly teach you to make this good for yourself, you know? And I didn't even notice at first. So it's no wonder I've never…" Usagi blushed "… you know…"

He nodded, rendered a little mute, cheeks red.

She cleared her throat again. Popped another mochi cheese ball into her mouth, the comforting, calming company of food, and continued talking, even redder.

"It's totally fine on my own, at least now. You know, once I actually started … on my own?" She mumbled under her breath, and he swallowed and nodded, a little choked. "But… during sex? I've tried… I don't know. Maybe my clit is broken? Maybe I'm having sex with the wrong gender? I'm…"

Usagi exhaled and shrugged. "I've tried... I've had … dates that landed in bed, here and there, and one long relationship – as you know," she said, and he nodded, even when it seemed a little forced.

"Did he know?" he interrupted her. She lifted her head.

"What, that I never came?" she asked under her breath, ears burning.

His blush intensified, but he held her gaze for a little moment of uncomfortable silence. "Did you fake?"

She pressed her lips together, rolled her eyes. "Sometimes, yeah. Of course I did."

Mamoru blinked, and Usagi flushed when he cocked his head sideways, and his hair fell a little into his eyes as he talked. "Of course you did?" he repeated.

Usagi rolled her eyes again, and sat back onto the heels of her feet. "You wouldn't understand," she said. "I mean… everyone fakes, right?"

He raised his eyebrows. "How would he begin to understand the extent of the problem if you fake?"

Usagi's eyebrows scrunched together in a glare, and Mamoru swallowed. "Oh c'mon," she said, shaking her head at him as if he were being dense. And for once, he was. "He felt horrible, every time. If I didn't fake at least sometimes, he would feel like a failure. Doubted himself, made this all about…"

"Him?" he interrupted.

Usagi blinked, cringed apologetically. "Kinda…" she mumbled.

He exhaled, but said nothing.

Usagi sighed, propped her elbow up on the table and rested her chin in her palm, while picking the rest of the mochi cheese balls off the skewers to pop them in one after the other. "It's just…" she frowned, shot Mamoru a look. "You guys are so FRAGILE in this regard…"

" _'_ _Us guys'_?" he repeated, eyebrows raised.

" _Men_ ," Usagi said, and Mamoru's eyebrows rose higher. "At least, y'know, every man I've had sex with. It's like…it's like... all your pride and self-worth depends on whether you're good in bed."

Her voice rose a little, and she noticed several of the heads at the table nearby turn, and lowered her voice to a hiss instead, but continued.

"And, and… if I just say _a little thing_ you're all ..." she frowned, thinking "…indignant and… don't even really try, just do more of what you already did … and then it's all on me. And I mean…. If he doesn't want to anymore, and I know that I'm not gonna come anyway, not like this, and I mean… I _do_ have a vibrator you know, which works every time, so… why bother?" Usagi huffed. She knew she was making little sense, she was jumping too fast. But…

She took a deep breath. "And I close up too, you know? All that concentration, all that trying to loosen all my muscles as the internet says I'm supposed to do to relax, the deep breaths down to the core, the… trying to imagine sexy scenes…" she slowed down and broke off, swallowing, blushing again. She hadn't meant to let _that_ slip.

Mamoru frowned. "You imagine you're somewhere else during sex?" he asked.

She blushed.

Mamoru blushed, cleared his throat. "With _someone_ else?"

Her cheeks burned again, and she shrugged awkwardly and cursed her voice for being somewhat raw when she answered, "Whatever helps?"

He just looked at her, with those intense blue eyes that she imagined all too often in those instances, and she knew she was blushing even harder, even when she hated that she did. Well, it wasn't like he knew, right?

"And did it?" he asked.

Usagi blinked. She had to remember what he meant, she'd been too distracted. But then she did, and sighed.

"No," she said with another slow, somewhat defeated shrug. "I'm always super tense and trying too hard. Not relaxed at all. And then when I did try to talk about it… he was super tense as well, and not coming anymore, either, as if I'm contagious in my non-orgasms."

He chuckled at her choice of words and his eyes widened when she glared at him for it. But then he nodded, and somehow, suddenly, his shoulders lost their tenseness, and he started talking. About the nervous system, and models of arousal, and mediators, and… she didn't follow.

"— traditional model of the female sexual response says that you'd need activation in the parasympathetic nervous system to get aroused in the first place, but nowadays neurologists found that sympathetic activation is needed to—"

Usagi lifted her hands, crossed them, and started laughing. "What, are you a sexpert now, too?"

He blushed. "No, but I'm a doctor. And I'm trying to explain the neurological processes behind orgasms."

She grabbed her soda, amused, waved her wrist at him with her other hand, rolling her hand once around, in a 'go ahead' gesture.

And the tenseness was back in his shoulder, when he rolled them awkwardly and raked those sinew-y, long fingers back through his inky hair.

"It's like this," he started, voice a little low.

"If your body is alarmed – be it through too intense nervousness, or fear, or y'know, apprehension, then your nervous system will activate all bodily reactions it needs for survival. But at the same time shuts everything down that's not required for survival. Like arousal," he said, gesticulating somewhat awkwardly and it made Usagi smile.

"So you're saying too that I should relax, or I won't get wet," she said, and he swallowed.

But he held her eyes, and inclined his head. "It's the traditional model. It's not completely disregarded, but the newer models actually say that for women a little 'thrill', if not needed for arousal, is what's needed to actually come. But the evidence on that is still a little mixed."

Usagi frowned. "So, you're saying science has no clue how women come?"

"No, they do! But they're saying the female orgasm is way more complicated than the male one is," he said, voice a little raspy.

Usagi rolled her eyes and snorted. "And they needed science to figure that out?"

Mamoru chuckled at that – the low, sexy rumble of his voice that she remembered all too well from her teenage years – and he grabbed at the tiny green bottle still on the table to refill his little glass, before winking at her.

Usagi cursed the small throb it caused in her, and she cleared her throat, and nodded at his drink.

"Are you planning to get drunk?" she asked. It was a rather forward question, especially with a bottle so small, but the thought that the prospect of sex with her was something he needed a drink for was kind of… disconcerting.

"No," he said directly, vehemently.

Usagi frowned.

He threw her a look, before he spoke. His eyes didn't waver from hers. "To be honest, I'm planning to get a little courage."

Her heart skipped a beat, and her voice was a little breathless when she spoke.

"For what?"

He shrugged. "For being honest. And forward. And good enough."

Usagi blinked, completely taken aback. " _'Good enough'_?!"

He threw her a little smile and a shrug, and clinked his glass against her soda glass, but didn't elaborate.

Good enough? Did he think he wasn't… or that she was… Usagi inhaled sharply. And… for being honest…?

"Why did you agree to this?" she asked again, in a whisper, and almost held her breath.

His eyes stayed on hers, but the sip he took on his glass was a little longer.

When he set it back on the table, he closed his eyes, tightly squeezed shut, before they landed back on her.

"Because you're the only one I was ever in love with."

She nearly choked on her soda, but Mamoru held her eyes. Steady, all cards on the table, while her brain fired.

It was really silly, of all the things she could have asked… When? Why did you not tell me? Are you _kidding me_? …Or even, guess what, me too. Or… Why did you leave, back then? Why did you not try harder, then?

The thing that came out of her mouth was, " _Was_?"

He shrugged again.

Her head went on speed dial. Her heart hammered. "Why did you never..." but she trailed off, didn't have the guts to say more.

He shook his head, only a little, and his eyebrows scrunched together.

But, weirdly, it was more than enough to realize she'd long made up her mind.

"Ok," Usagi whispered.

He blinked. "Ok, what?"

"Ok," she breathed. "Let's do this. Let's have sex."

His eyes widened, and Usagi's courage faltered a little.

"I mean… only if you want..."

He reached across the table for the little bottle, and topped his still pretty much filled glass up, before filling her now empty soda glass half-way with his liquid courage, as well.

Only then did he meet her eyes. "Tell me why it's never worked," he said.

Huh? Usagi blinked, confused.

"What did they do wrong?" he said, holding her gaze.

There it was again, that little throb. Usagi flushed a little, and knit her brows together. What _did_ they do wrong? She knew they'd always tried. Rubbing where they assumed it felt good, fondling where they'd thought it was right.

It took Usagi a moment to answer. It wasn't anything she'd really ever thought about, and she frowned all the way through her response because of it.

"They…" she started, thinking. "They never… asked?"

Then she shook her head. "Sorry, that's probably not a really helpful answer."

He shook his head vehemently. "What do you mean with that?" he whispered, and she leaned a little closer.

Suddenly she was very aware of the fact they were in a crowded public place.

She cleared her throat. "What I liked. They didn't ask. They assumed, instead." Then she frowned. "But probably because…"

"Because?" he asked.

"I don't know. It's weird to ask. You're admitting you don't know what you're doing. I get that that's a hard thing to do. And I mean…" she swallowed. "I didn't tell them, exactly, either, that for one I prefer two fingers instead of…" she blushed, trailed off. "Or you know, what I like."

"What _do_ you like?" he asked, immediately, a little breathless.

Usagi felt her heartbeat through her chest, in her ears, in the tips of her fingers when she took a sip of his drink. It was surprisingly sweet for a rice wine, and sadly not at all potent. She hadn't noticed when she'd taken a sip of his glass, earlier.

She shook her head just a little. "Are we really having this conversation?" she asked with a snort.

He rolled his shoulder, gave her a small smile, and she shook her head again and envied him a little. Sure, he blushed a lot. But the way he sat there was utterly composed, while her fingers shook around her glass.

"How can you be so calm with this?" she asked.

He blushed. Raised his glass for her and cleared his throat. "If it makes you comfortable, full disclosure, I'm shaking," he said.

She raised an eyebrow, made a point to look at his very still, very calm hands.

He chuckled, and his eyebrow twitched as he held her gaze. "But I'm also a surgeon, and have needed to learn to be completely able to work, and to not let it take me over when I'm nervous."

"You're nervous?" She whispered.

"Very." His voice was low, almost inaudible over the noise.

She bit her lip, talking right over her wildly beating heart.

"Why?" she whispered back.

"You," he answered, with a newly returned blush.

She looked at him, put all the 'Why' she had in herself into her eyes.

His blush deepened. "I told you why…"

Her heart thundered in her ears. "You said ' _was'_."

He sat back, held her eyes, but didn't answer. She was ready to smack him, when he leaned forward again, and asked.

"When you do it on your own…What works?"

She flushed. Back to business, it seemed.

"Do you have any fantasies?" he asked with a slight, embarrassed break in his voice that she didn't fail to miss and it made her smile even when the question mortified her.

_My only real fantasy is you._

That's not the kinda thing you answer, right?

"I don't …" She swallowed. "Not really. At least not…" she broke off, flushed to the roots, and he took pity on her, and didn't pry.

"Do you?" she asked, instead.

He swallowed.

"I do," he said after a moment, and her shoulders slumped in relief that she didn't have to reveal her embarrassing secret after all.

"Tell me about it," she said, and felt a little pride in how she was immediately more relaxed.

He swallowed before he started to talk. And the moment he did, her heart felt like it stopped.

"We're back in the fountain," he started, and her hands immediately start to tremble. "And you push me into the water down with you, just like you did, and your lips—" he exhaled, his eyes unsure, licked his lips and pressed them together. But he continued after a small break, and a whimper from her lips. "Your lips open, just like they did, and I drown in your taste and moan into your mouth, and my hands slip into your hair."

She gripped her glass a little harder, and his eyes flew to her hands.

"Go on," she whispered.

His eyes flick back up to hers, and his lips open a little, as he exhaled, deeply. "And then I break off the kiss, but instead of… what we really did, you press me back down, and you take off your shirt, and then…"

"And then?" she asked. Too urgent, too breathless.

He licks his lips again, and her eyes are glued to his mouth. "You start to undress me, shirt first, and I get to lick the water off your chest while you pull down my pants. And you reach under your skirt – the pleated, navy school skirt of your high school uniform that you wore that night – and you leave it on, but you remove your panties, and…" his voice broke, and he exhaled. "And then you kneel over me, and take my hand, and slip it underneath your skirt, and…"

He broke off for real then, and his eyes left hers, and he took a chug of his drink.

But his words travelled straight between her legs, and she grabbed the little slip of paper that was their current bill from underneath his Sake bottle, and before he even registered what was happening, she was at the front of the restaurant, paying, and back to grab her purse, and his hand.

"Let's do this, then," she whispers, threading her fingers through his, and he jerks alive, and rushes them out, leaving half full glasses and the remnants of her food disregarded on the table, and it's minutes later that her hair trails behind her in the wind, and her thighs lock around him, and her fingers stretch across his stomach, and he drives them through nighttime Juuban to his apartment.

It was exhilarating. The roar of the engine in her ears and vibrating beneath her legs. The cocooned feeling of the slightly too large spare helmet, the feeling of being pressed against him so thoroughly, arms tightly clasped around him, and she found herself trying to push herself forever closer, as her home district rushed by her.

It was in itself something she had secretly always dreamed of – climbing up behind him on this motorcycle, getting that legitimate excuse to crush herself against him with all she had. Whenever she'd seen him (way back when and even only recently) rush by on his bike, she'd licked her lips and imagined what it would be like.

Tokyo was a big place, but Juuban wasn't at all. Not a week went by sometimes without at least seeing glimpses of his shiny motorcycle cross a street, turn a corner. She didn't look, mostly. On her way from or to the metro station that took her along the main street that he so often took on his rides. But she always found her senses tune in on the sounds of motorcycles in general because of him. Reaching out without daring to look, and then looking after all, and cursing herself when it wasn't him, and cursing herself when it was him, too.

And now it was happening. And not only this… Her heart couldn't keep up, really. It rushed in her ears almost louder than the roar of the ride. And it stayed even when she felt the muscles in Mamoru's thighs flex and the bike slow down, as they approached a grayish apartment complex on the fringes of Juuban that she dimly recognized from when she'd been here once, when she was 16, with a silly excuse to drop off a book Ami had borrowed, and got invited in for the most uncomfortable, awkward tea she'd ever had, weeks before that kiss.

She felt her body involuntarily move with him, almost disappointed, when the bike stopped and he lifted himself up and off the bike, removing his helmet in one move.

His eyes found hers, and he licked his lips, just ever so slightly, when she still sat on his bike and he stood in front of it. He closed the gap between them, and her breath caught when his fingers found the clasp of his spare helmet, and he lifted it off her head, his eyes never leaving hers, but not saying anything.

And just like the last time it was her that made the move, when she clawed her fingers into the button border of his ever-so-fancy grey dress shirt, and pulled.

She dimly registered the helmets simply clatter to the ground, when his fingers pushed into her hair, slightly messy from the ride, and his lips connected with hers. Soft, warm, _Mamoru_.

She sighed into the kiss, opened her mouth immediately, impatient, and he moaned when his tongue brushed against hers – ever so lightly, ever so tentatively – and the grip in her hair got a little stronger, and her own mouth a little more insistent, as she wound her arms around his shoulders, pulling herself up against him.

It was almost better than she remembered.

She ground herself against him, half hovering off the bike, felt it wobbling dangerously beneath her as she tried to deepen the kiss even more, taste even more. But his hands slipped from her hair and to her cheeks – those strong fingers so very, very gentle – and his thumbs stroked against her skin even as his mouth closed, and his soft lips brushed against hers calmly, lovingly, before he retreated, and she once again moved with him, reluctant to let go.

His eyes were wide when she opened hers again. He didn't say anything, still, just held out his hand to help her off his bike.

She took it, swallowing thickly, threading her fingers through his.

He didn't let go of her hand, even when he fumbled for his keys, or pushed the button for the elevator. Even when the silence became thick when they stood and looked at their feet, and she felt his hands begin to tremble, when neither one said anything, and her heart pounded out of her chest because _this was it_. This was happening. _Now_.

He only let go from her hand when he opened the door to his apartment for her, and motioned for her to enter before him, eyes still wide, adam's apple bopping.

She felt the soft click of his shutting door as if it vibrated right through her.

Her heart had already been beating in a rhythm that pounded in her ears. Now it was speeding up, causing her hands to tremble slightly and her breath to hitch.

She stumbled a bit over her own feet in the narrow genkan, not daring to look back at him, but even clumsier than usual due to both her nervousness and the darkness.

He hadn't turned on the lights. Yet, the moon shone dimly from the big room up front, shrouding them both in mostly shadows.

She slipped out of her shoes, her breathing feeling too loud in the dark, silent apartment, and her skin vibrated, almost, knowing he was right behind her, knowing he'd… they'd…

There was a hollow thud on the wooden floor when he stepped up from the genkan, and stopped right behind her. She sucked in her breath when his front brushed her back ever so slightly, and she felt him bend behind her, just barely.

She almost jumped when she felt his hands settle around her waist, slipping against the soft fabric. Felt his mouth against the shell of her ear, his breath and voice against her neck when he whispered.

"Is this ok?"

She blushed at the way her nod was so quick, so breathless, so desperate, almost, and she breathed a mumbled, "uhuh", just for clarity. Embarrassed how he hadn't even done anything, and she already felt like pressing her knees together. But the situation… there was something about this.

"Close your eyes," he whispered, lips brushing the sensitive skin behind her ear and she bit her lip, as she complied, immediately.

She could feel the tremble in his hands, when his hands around her waist started to move, tugging on the fabric of her blouse, pulling it from her skirt, and slip beneath. It gave her a slight thrill, knowing he was shaking, too. That this was affecting him, too.

She exhaled. It was a little shaky, and her belly jumped when his fingertips slipped against it.

His hands were a little cold. A little clammy. And they moved tentatively, as if he really dared not to touch her, it was feather-light. Yet they scorched her skin, and she found herself holding her breath.

His hands were slipping higher, lifting her blouse in the process, his grip a little fuller, and she felt his shaky breath against her neck, when she arched her back to meet his hands full on, and she lifted her trembling arms above her head.

'This blouse can go now', her stance said. And she squeezed her eyes a little more tightly shut, when, with one barely audibly groan coming from his lips, his hands slipped across the lacy fabric of her bra. They hovered there, just a moment, his fingers twitching over the fabric, and she felt her naked back brush against the fabric of his silky button-down, heaving from labored breathing, before his fingers curled into the fabric of her blouse and he lifted it off her body. With a quick whoosh, her head was tangled in it, her sight growing even darker behind closed eyes.

And then it moved across her hair, and she heard the fabric settle on the floor.

It was his exhaling that she heard through the silence this time. And her own that joined soon after. Her skin exploded in goosebumps, even when it wasn't cold, even when his hands weren't even on her, but she knew his eyes to be. It was a moment that took just that little bit too long – and he stepped back up behind her, and this time she could feel the bulge that had formed in his pants press against the fabric of her skirt.

"More?" he asked, his voice just a hush against her ear, and she could only nod that fervent, impatient, mute nod again.

And then his hands were back, trembling even harder than before, and she felt a finger slip beneath the back of her bra, and his breath against the top of her spine when it came free.

She rolled her shoulders, moving to get it off, when his hands gripped her arms, stopping her.

"Not so fast," he whispered, urgently, and it pooled between her legs, the way his voice was raspy, on the brink of control.

Instead, his fingers moved – his touch still so, so light – to her shoulders, beneath the straps, and with the softest touch, moved them down and off her arms, until her bra simply fell from her and onto the floor. And even though her eyes were still closed, she knew of course that she was standing topless in his dark hallway, when he was still fully clothed.

And then she had to bite her lip again, when he was still not touching her, not really, and instead his hands moved higher, and into her hair, and with a few tugs, and a few light thuds of bobby pins that met the fate of her bra on his cold wooden floor, she felt her hair tumble down across her back, and him shudder audibly.

His hands wound into her hair, then. And his voice broke in a little groan that travelled through her like lightning, and for the first time she got it – all the years of teasing, of calling her that name. It all coalesced into this one, strangled breaking of his voice.

He was really, really into her hair.

The revelation burned between her legs. That thought that maybe, maybe it was right. That he'd been dreaming about her as much as she'd been dreaming about him.

She opened her eyes, then. They adjusted quickly to the dark, and she could see into the big, single room in front of her. The big bed, the dark sheets, the blinking lights of Tokyo Tower shining in through the grand windows – curtains fully open. It looked exactly like the one time she'd been here, years and years ago.

She took a few steps, without even thinking. Her girly, silly, frilly socks created almost no sound on the hard, cold floor, and she felt her hair glide through his fingers as she walked into the room on slightly shaky legs. Passed by the bed, her fingers absentmindedly gliding along the dark, silk sheets, and stopped in front of his majestic view.

You could see almost all of Minato, this high up.

Boldened by the knowledge that she was standing in the dark, and that she could see but they could not, she brought a hand up to the glass of the tall window, and stood half-naked over Tokyo.

She heard the shaky intake of his breath, when he stopped behind her.

"What do you want?" he asked, voice low and hitching.

Her fingers curled against the glass, and she felt the warm puff of her own breath reflected back against her lips by the wall of glass in front of her, when she spoke.

"I want you to touch me," she said, still facing for what might just be all of Tokyo to her. Her voice was strong, much stronger than his, and it felt bold, scandalous, almost, even when she knew this was what she was here for.

He stepped closer, and once again she could feel the slip of his shirt as it connected to her naked back, and his hands once more settle on her hips – naked now, along the seam of her skirt. But, to the frustrated rumble in her belly, his hands slipped higher, not lower.

But she gasped nevertheless when his fingers ran, ever so lightly, along the skin just below her breasts, stroking back and forth, back and forth – and her voice came out a little strangled, when one hand reached up and grasped one nipple, rolling it between his fingers almost delicately, and it puckered up almost instantly.

She moaned, deep and almost pained, and arched back into him. Moaned even louder, when he pressed back, and she felt her chest connect to the cold glass, and her ass to his cock.

Her breathing sped up. It would be so easy. So absolutely easy, and the thought thrilled her. If he'd just flip up her skirt, lower his zipper, move her panties aside, and fuck her into this window, breasts pressed against Tokyo.

He didn't, of course. He was nothing if not tentative. And she didn't voice the thought.

"What do you want?" he breathed against her neck, once again, and she groaned, biting her lip.

_I want you to fuck me. I want you to bend me over and thrust until you can't._

She didn't say this, of course. Part of the problem, she supposed. Instead she said, again, and it frustrated her immensely this time, "I want you to touch me."

The weight against her back lifted, ever so slightly, as he bent his face towards her ear and whispered, "Show me."

Her eyes widened, just a little, and met his, when she turned in her spot. Latched straight onto those blue, piercing eyes, so near to her face, and licked her lips.

She brought her hands up to his collar, then. Loosened the first few buttons with quick but trembling fingers, felt his adam's apple bob against her fingertips as he swallowed deeply and brought his hands up to still her movements.

How can his hands be so gentle, was her only thought, as his thumbs stroked her palms and his cheek slipped against hers as he leaned in to whisper once again.

"Not on me," he said.

It was her time to swallow, when her eyes once again found his.

_Oh._

His face was all blush, even when his eyes were strong, and she felt the thrill of it all flutter in her chest and her gut when she, without breaking his gaze, reached one hand beneath her skirt, and dragged her panties down her legs with just her thumb hooked into them.

His breath hitched with the almost noiseless sound of her panties hitting his shiny floors, and her heart hammered against her chest, when his legs gave way, and he lowered himself to his knees in front of her, top buttons now undone, and stroked his hands from her knees up her thighs. His grip was stronger now, pressing into her flesh, her skin moving under his fingers, as he lifted her skirt in order to be able to _see_.

Her fingers shook, and yet, she was not at all surprised to find she was wet in a way she hadn't been in a long, long time, when her back fell back against the cold glass behind her, and her middle and index fingers slipped in practiced, blind movements between her folds, collecting moisture to spread where it felt good.

And oh god, the thrill, the way his lips were slightly open, his fist kneading into the fabric of her skirt, the other into the fabric of his pants. The way he shifted, slightly, closer, eyes glued to her fingers. The way she saw his bulge twitch in his pants, her eyes straying, straying to his crotch with every movement.

"You, too," she felt her voice rush out, breathless, without thinking.

He flushed an even deeper red, his eyes flicking up to hers, away from her fingers even when she saw his eyes flit back to them and back up to her eyes, and this tongue slipped out, just briefly, to press against his lips and the raging war behind his eyes. A war that was obviously won in her favor, when his eyes jumped back to the movements of her fingers, but his own hand slipped down to undo the shiny silver buckle of his belt, rip it from his pants, and blindly flung it behind him, before he lowered his zipper and reached inside.

"No," she groaned. "Let me see."

She groaned against the desire that rushed through her, flooding her fingers, when his tongue flicked out to lick his lips, and his eyes went up to the ceiling as he steeled himself for what was obviously very embarrassing to him, and yet very, very hot. But then he ripped at the button of his pants, and it shifted down his form just slightly, baring his cock to her eyes, hard and veiny and red and thick in his fist, and her fingers got slicker still.

It was easily the most erotic situation she'd ever been in, easily the most erotic situation she'd even ever thought about, and her breath came quicker and she felt her insides spasm just that little bit, with a shudder that ran through her, at the sight Mamoru made – breathing harshly through his clenched teeth, eyes transfixed to the movement of her fingers moving in slow but ferocious circles across her clit and underneath. At the sounds he made, clipped, tortured little grunts as he exhaled, his eyes rolling back into his head for just miniscule moments – she'd almost missed it – before back between her legs, while he pumped his hand up and down between his own legs, on his knees in front of her.

And she felt it building in her gut, and her muscles tense, and she stopped her movements abruptly and breathed out harshly, meeting Mamoru's startled eyes that seemed to be almost agonized, his tip already covered in a thin sheen of moisture.

Usagi licked her lips involuntarily, and withdrew her hand completely.

This wasn't what she was here for. She already knew she could bring _herself_ to orgasm. This was his job tonight.

Her breathing was still coming out in labored puffs, breasts moving with her heaving chest, and Mamoru seemed to notice – his eyes seemed absolutely torn where to keep their attention, they seemed almost crazed in the way he _tried_ to keep her gaze, and his own hand slowed when he understood she wasn't going to go on.

But what he did then made her shudder all over again.

He lifted himself up, only slightly, lifting his bum from his feet, and himself fully up on only his knees, erection still in one hand, and leaned forward. His free hand grabbed her wrist, and brought her hand to his lips. And with a tiny, almost inaudible catch in his breath, his lips opened and wrapped around her index finger first, and she felt his tongue swirl, licking off every last bit of moisture he found there, before repeating the same with her middle finger.

It felt as if her entire sex throbbed at the sight, and caused her to whimper, and his eyes to fly back to hers around her fingers.

There was so much swimming in his eyes. So much she couldn't name. So many intense emotions that felt like they crawled right into her skin.

He released her finger with a little pop, his eyes not leaving hers, and she sucked in a harsh breath through her teeth, letting the back of her head hit the glass behind her, when his hand let go of himself and instead both hands moved to dig deep into her thighs, and his lips planted a sweet, slow kiss against her swollen, pink, lower ones.

But even when she held her breath, tense and ready and eager, his tongue didn't come out to play.

Instead he whispered, lips moving against her wet skin, right into her sex.

"Tell me what to do."

She released the breath she'd held with a growl, almost, and sucked in another, when his index finger moved up and stroked, gliding softly, slowly but precise, along her wet, slick and noisy folds and it coiled in her belly.

" _That_ ," she panted. It was harsh, raspy.

He withdrew his hand immediately, chuckling, shook his head.

" _No_ ," he whispered, brushed his cheek against the blonde curls of her sex. "Tell me."

She couldn't help but buck her hips a little, felt his nose bump against her, and she moaned. But he didn't move again, waited patiently for her to talk, and she had to roll her eyes back into her head.

What was he supposed to do? What did she like?

She squeezed her eyes shut, grabbed at one of his hands still at the top of her thighs, holding up her skirt.

" _Tongue_ ," she rasped, after a little while.

He rewarded her with a slow, careful lick, and she shuddered, but frowned. It was wrong, just a little too far…

"Tell me what to do," he repeated, whispering.

" _Higher_ ," she moaned. It was louder now, stronger.

And he reacted, immediately.

" _Higher_." This time it was a demand, and she groaned, guttural, when his tongue touched the underside of her clit.

" _Suck_ ," she almost shouted, this time, into his dark apartment. And when he did, and she cried, " _more teeth_ ," and he _did_ , and her head flung back against the glass, again and again, because he sucked harder, and she didn't need to say anymore, and her toes curled and her muscles tensed and it all coiled and coiled tighter and tighter in her and she was _almost, almost_ there…

Except that it wasn't enough, it wasn't deep enough, and her inside clenched, and her legs wobbled, and she was ready to cry because she was _just right there_ , and…

"Tell me what to do," he breathed, harshly, and she wouldn't have understood it with her clit in his mouth as it was, if she didn't know what he was saying anyway.

"Not –" she breathed, erratic, groaning "—enough. Dee-p."

He almost yanked one of her legs up, then. Up, and over his shoulder and she keened, and almost fell in her slippery sock, if it wasn't for his strong grip on her, because it was deeper like that, like a deepened, intense kiss and she throbbed, and throbbed and _shit-fuck-damn_ this was _so good_ , but…

" _Fingers_ ," she cried. She didn't even care how desperate she sounded, how feral. " _Inside_."

He let go of his tight grip on her then, and she screeched, because she lost her footing. But his hand was back, immediately, to steady her, and she cried out in frustration, because with a loud, wet smack his lips let go of her. It was a second before she felt herself being pulled, almost pushed, slightly lifted, and her back and head hit the dark, soft, silk sheets, and her hands clawed into them when she felt herself pulled closer towards the foot of the bed.

He was kneeling in front of it, in front of her, and this time he pulled both her legs over his shoulders and his mouth was back on her, sucking hard until she keened, and then she felt his finger push in and curl inside.

It caused her to wail, mewl pitifully, and her thighs to clench around his head, and the muscles in her insides to spasm once more, because it was the right spot, the right pressure, the _teeth_ , and his finger touched where it was _perfect_ and it was _so good_ and _so close_ … but not deep enough. Not _nearly_ deep enough.

"Tell me what –" he started again, but this time she shouted her request out before he had a chance to finish uttering the words, and what she shouted caused him to emit a strangled groan.

" _Fuck_ –" she shouted. " _You_. I need _you_. Inside."

His lips ripped away from her, and she cried out in protest, even when she lifted her head and saw through bleary eyes how he almost fell over his pants in his haste to get them down, while digging in his pocket for a piece of foil that he ripped with his teeth.

His eyes were wide, when he held his cock, thick and hard and weeping and neatly wrapped in rubber, one knee on the bed and her thighs around his waist, at her entrance.

She exhaled a shuddered breath, the frenzy a little bit lifted, and met his eyes.

Those unsure, gentle, kind eyes, so full of burning _want_. It made her throat constrict and her core flutter.

"Tell me what to do," he whispered, hair falling into his eyes.

He was breathing so harshly, his lips glistening with a moisture she knew was _her_. And those _eyes_. Those blue, blue eyes.

She lifted herself up on her elbows, and higher, caught her hands in the button border of his shirt and started pulling. He came down to her with a jerk, losing his balance slightly, and they both cried out, eyes on each other, when his cock, still in his fist and poised at her entrance, pushed inside ever so slightly with the fall, but he didn't push in further, waited for her to talk.

She licked her lips, ripped at his shirt – her hands were trembling too much, she wasn't able to do it gently. A few buttons must have ripped, she felt something clatter to the floor, something else hit her chest, but she got most of them undone. She pushed her hands inside, groaning at the feeling of his skin beneath her hands, and instead of pushing it off him, she pulled at the ends, and he fell on her lips.

The kiss was deep, wet, a little sloppy. She bit at his lower lip, and it made him whimper so much she felt his cock twitch against her and the thrill of it to run along her spine.

And then there was his heartbeat. She felt it beneath her fingers on his chest. It was even faster than hers. _Much,_ much faster than hers, and that weirdly fueled her on so much more than even the kiss did, and caused her to writhe against him, and him to whimper even more.

He released her lips abruptly, exhaled harshly against them, eyes feral and _so, so_ close to hers.

"Tell me what to do," he repeated, again. It was almost pleading.

Usagi swallowed, thickly, and with wide eyes, she decided not to tell, but to show, once more. And with a courage she had no idea where it was coming from, she grabbed his cock, feeling utterly self-satisfied at the sharp hiss it elicited from his lips vibrating against her own, and started rubbing it – slow at first, then faster – against her clit.

And how sweet the thrill of feeling his fingers curl and clench against her, as he tried to stay in control, tried not to come, and his forehead fell against hers as he started to pant, and her own breathing sped up once again.

She had to bite her lip, when she moved his cock around her clit in slow but strong swirls, up and down and lower. Hissed, when she dipped him in, just slightly, and he nearly cried out, only to move him back up. Arched her back and pressed her chest against him and he whimpered again, and his fingers clawed into the mattress as he tried to keep himself up to not to crush her beneath him.

And then there was this point, that sweet, sweet point, when she rubbed it, slick and wet, from underneath, and _shitfuck_ it was good and _ohgawd was this it?_ and her eyes rolled back into her head, and she felt him twitch in her hand, and Usagi cried out in frustration when he pulled himself out of her grasp with a fierce grunt and a staggered, "S-sorry."

His cock was back in his own fist, then. Hips raised away from her, and her eyes found his face. He was breathing hard through his nose, eyes scrunched shut, his lower lip between his teeth, and she got it.

_Oh._

The feeling traveled down quickly and curled inside, the fact that he had nearly come without even being inside of her, yet.

And then his fist curled into the fabric of his sheets next to her face, his biceps flexed, just a little, as he balanced himself on his elbow, and he lowered his hips to her again. And now she didn't have to do it, because he was a fast learner, and he rubbed his cock, up and down, up and down, and in those delicious swirls around her clit once more, and this time she arched her back and her hands flew around him, underneath his shirt and clawed into his back, because now she could just feel, and nothing else, and _fuck_ it was good.

And he dipped his cock back in, just the tip, just like she had done, and moved it back up, and her insides fluttered around him because this was delicious, beautiful torture, and her nails dug into his skin as her muscles twitched and convulsed and _fuck –_

And he did it again, and she hit her head against the pillow cause _shit shit shit –_

And he did it a third time, dipping in, just the tip, but then he groaned, and cursed, and with a powerful push that moved her up the bed just a little, he was buried deep inside. They cried out into each other's mouths, and his hand flew to her clit and swirled – index and middle finger, just like she had done herself earlier, only a little clumsier - while he withdrew with a low groan and shoved himself back in, deep, deep inside, deeper than before.

She held her breath, clung to his shoulders, clutching at his back, and arched her pelvis up to meet him, and it was these frenzied, hard rubs of his fingers, at the same time that he thrust back in, that it was finally there.

She whimpered, strangled, teeth against his shoulder as her whole body seemed to spasm and she forgot to breathe for a second, when her world went white for just a moment.

It was different from the sharp, local orgasms she'd brought herself to on her own. Maybe not better, but so, so different, and her head hit the mattress with a thud, and she dug her heels into his back to continue, so she could ride this out a little longer.

And even when he was still moving, panting, his hand came up and he propped his elbow up on the other side of her, and she started giggling through her shudders, when his forehead landed back on hers and he smiled, even when his lips still quivered and his eyes were that intense shade of frenzy.

It was two, three, four more thrusts, and he shuddered, too, and Usagi had to bite her lip, because damn, he looked gorgeous when he came.

And then his eyes opened back up, hooded and spent, but glued onto hers, and his chest heaved and his exhales where harsh, and mingled with hers.

She suddenly noticed, again, that the apartment was still completely dark, completely silent, and that her skirt, hunched around her middle, was still on her, and that his shirt hung around them, open, covering them both, and his eyes were searching something in hers that made her throat constrict.

She had to bite her lip, and smiled a sheepish little smile at him, and then she reached up and glided her hand underneath his shoulders, and slipped the garment off his back.

He chuckled, low and rumbly and a little breathy.

"It did work…" he said then, blushing slightly "...right?"

She snorted, shook her head a little, and his eyes widened a little with a frown, before she pushed herself up and nodded.

"Yes. It did work."

But his frown stayed, and turned into alarm, when she straightened up farther, leaning to stand, and he grabbed at her arm, his breathing picking up again.

"Wait-" he breathed.

She met his alarmed eyes. She'd meant to get up to get rid of her skirt, and blinked, realizing it must look she was getting up to _go_...

She swallowed, held his gaze, and cocked her head sideways, and with clumsy fingers, blindly found the zipper on her skirt, and pushed it down her legs.

He exhaled with a little "Ah," and it sounded a little embarrassed.

She climbed back on the bed, and lay down on her side, completely naked now, both of them, except for her silly rabbit socks, and somehow she thought it fitting – this was all her. She settled down close to him, but not touching, and pillowed her head on her own elbow and arm, tucking her other hand beneath, and met his silent stare.

He didn't say anything, even when he smacked his lips and seemed to try.

When he seemed to have given up the fight, and stayed mute, Usagi moved her hand from underneath her elbow, and placed it back on his chest. Just like before.

His heart was still hammering strong. Maybe even stronger than before. She felt him tremble beneath her fingers, and she swallowed thickly.

"Are you going to leave the country again?" she whispered toward his chest, and her hand, rising and falling with it.

He shook his head, and his hair fell back across his eyes. "No," he whispered.

She nodded to herself then, swallowing. "Good," she said, and with that she swung over and on top of him, and lowered her face down to his.

He caught her by the lips, and his kiss this time was a little more desperate, and his hands in her hair and on her thigh a little stronger, as if he were afraid she'd up and leave at any moment and he would have to hold her there.

When she broke the kiss, it was him that moved with her this time, reluctant to let go, and she slid her fingers into the silky, soft raven hair and brushed it from his eyes.

"Can I see you again, tomorrow?" she whispered.

He nodded – quickly, breathlessly, but then frowned. And with a powerful push, he swung her around, pinning her beneath him, and kissed her again, with more longing, more hunger than before, and when the kiss ended, she was flushed and panting again, and his hands were brushing lower.

"How about you stay?" he whispered back, and his voice broke, and she could only nod before she drowned once more.

It was a text that woke her up the next morning, sprawled across his chest, sticky, hair curled from sweat, and his hand that clasped hers tightly, even in sleep.

_Rei, 11:03 am_

_So? ? ?  
_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there you go xD. The teach Usagi Sex Trope meets the Orgasm-Gap in a female-gaze smut fantasy. I'm a fan of open endings, as you know, and I really hope you liked it!
> 
> Also, for everyone who's concerned about drunk driving: if you look closely, I made them share - and not even finish – a small, standard 330 ml bottle of japanese rice wine. So no one was really even tipsy here (which was important to me, because accountability of decisions and all.) But alcohol is a realistic factor in situations like these, so I wanted to keep it in.
> 
> So yeah, I know, I know, commenting smut is weird - and this time it really was a full blown smut story - but please let me know how I did, and what you'd like to see in this series, and, y'know, talk to me, please? ;)


	3. Sehnsucht

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, first, thank you to my beta, Uglygreenjacket, I know you had a rough weekend, and I SO appreciate you beta-ing for me anyway!
> 
> "Sehnsucht" is an untranslatable german word that describes the yearning for something far away, a high, recurring, intense, often painful desire for something out of reach. It's the agony that comes with longing. Literally translated it means 'Yearn-addiction'.
> 
> So.. I've been asked over and over in my ask box if I can write a crystal tokyo future lemon story, and they always asked me the same: To please write a lemon about keeping the sexual spark alive in a long long-term relationship.
> 
> And I absolutely understand why you would want this. Because it's one of the realest struggles in a sexual relationship.
> 
> And that's why I'm saying no to one part of the request: this will not be Crystal Tokyo. Because it would be so easy to grasp for magic and glamour and that (for most people) very unrealistic lifestyle for a solution: Instead, I want to give you a real-life story for a real solution to a real problem. And this is why this story is set in the future, in long term commitment, but instead of Crystal Tokyo, I'm using Naoko's Parallel!verse, which is supposed to be set in a world where they live a normal life, something similar to ours.
> 
> Anyway, I wrote this to a german song called "Flash Mich" by Mark Forster (for all you guys who can somewhat understand my native tongue), and this fic has been planned forever but I didn't write it while writing Confetti, so here you have it now as a small interlude between Confetti and its epilogue ;) Let me know what you think!

Sehnsucht

A Short Story in the "Lemon Tree" Series

* * *

 

Both the International Child Neurology Congress and the Annual Clinical Neurosurgery Conference were held in Europe this year, and so Mamoru found himself on trains that were slower and louder than he was used to, driving through scenery that was greener and thicker of trees than he was used to, and speaking in several symposia and holding a few poster presentations where he could in a language he was fluent in, even when it didn't flow off the tongue as easily as he would hope.

And while the prospect of being in Europe for a little while, with the congresses being a little more than a week apart, had seemed thrilling at first, and he always enjoyed the insight into different cultures that these congresses allowed him, he'd quickly realized what it meant.

Two or three-day trips away from home were normal for him. But two weeks? He couldn't remember the last time he had not seen his family for this long a time. Maybe ever.

So, by the time the Annual Clinical Neurosurgery Conference in Paris had ended in its closing ceremony, and the stress and nervousness that came whenever he had to stand in front of a lectern and relate scientific findings in a language that was not his mother tongue finally fell off him, and he found himself in a bistro overlooking the Seine with a view of the Eiffel Tower that felt as if it might have come straight out of a painting depicting the Belle Epoque, he'd missed Usagi so much he felt like weeping.

He hadn't, of course, and when she'd called that day, he'd laughed and related every detail of those chocolate croissants in minute detail for her. And when his children poked their pink heads into the line of her phone camera and spoke of their school day in annoyed tones while the sun was still high where he was, but gone where they were, he was all smiles and hushed, but controlled 'I miss you's. But when he hung up, knowing she was in bed with the side next to her empty, hugging the phone, and he was sitting in this chair in this much too big hotel room overlooking a scenery he was dying to share with her, his throat constricted, and a lump formed that he hadn't felt in quite some time.

They'd had children for 15 years now, had been married for 16, together for more than half his life. They'd gone through a lot together, literally the end of the world several times. They'd fought and annoyed and worshipped each other, and sometimes marital life could be tedious and tiring and infuriating. Sometimes he forgot how precious this life was, in the routine of things between washing machines and insurance. Sometimes, he forgot that the peck that was their kiss good night, and the annoyed eye roll of his teenage daughter, and the sheepish 'oops' of his youngest when she broke something valuable _again,_ was what they had fought for so hard, was the most precious thing in the world.

He didn't forget it, now. Now, he missed it all so hard he could barely contain the homesickness, could barely keep it down, could barely appreciate the fact that he sat in a building that was hundreds of years old in a city that had passed the test of time and had so much to show him.

He couldn't enjoy it.

Whenever he was two or three days gone from her, and couldn't see her face as the first and last thing of the day, it suddenly became the most important thing in the world, once more, and absolute agony to be away from. And every time, he vowed to not forget it again – to not ignore it – once routine and night shifts and spilled milkshakes on homework had him back, and yet every time he did.

It seemed, even knowing full well what it meant to have no family didn't prevent him from forgetting to not take his happiness for granted, sometimes.

He tended to forget how special Kousagi was with her crash-landing cartwheels, and her too loud, off-key singing and her happy, giant hugs and that smile and purity that was so absolutely _Usagi_ that it took his breath away. He forgot how special Chibi-Usa was with her nose in her books, her quietly judging huffs, and the way she cared so deeply, even when she didn't always say it that was so uniquely _him_ that it scared him. He forgot how special his marriage was, with a wife that still looked at him the same way she did when he was 17 whenever he managed to make her angry; with a wife that was the princess from his dreams and now the queen of his world.

He'd gotten up, then, spent his remaining days in Paris exploring the vast museums and sat in a lecture or two at the Sorbonne. Things he enjoyed. Things Usagi wouldn't enjoy. Things that didn't remind him of her absence. He absolutely avoided the food, the riverside, the things that gave Paris its reputation.

He continued the trend once he'd arrived in Amsterdam, disembarked the crammed train and found himself in a city with even smaller, even more romantic riversides, and browsed the halls of Renaissance art instead.

He'd been so absolutely relieved when the Congress had started, and he could once again spend his days sitting in stuffed rooms full of people in suits with scrutiny in their eyes and stale coffee in their cups, as he fumbled with the unfamiliar language and the uncomfortable situation. He'd stayed late for discussions and get-togethers that bored him, but kept his mind away from home, and the current distance between him and it. Between him and her.

Sometimes, when life was being stressful, and his shoulders tense and his head aching, he would sit and wish for a day of quiet – wish for an afternoon with just his book and some silence. Now, as he sat in the quiet of his hotel room, not ready to go to bed, unable to even call her and hear her voice because it would be 6 in the morning for her and she'd thump him one if he did, he wished so hard for just a second of the constant noise that was the soundtrack of his life, that were his girls. There was no ounce of desire left in him to even touch the book he'd laid out that night. Instead he lay down, closed his eyes tight, and imagined the pillow he was hugging was his wife.

It didn't really work that much. The pillow didn't kick him in his sleep.

"Good morning, Dr. Tsukino!"

Mamoru lifted his eyes, greeted the awfully cheerful and awfully tall man that had been working the reception of his hotel all of the previous days he'd been here, and accepted the paper cup that had already been prepared for him gratefully. Mamoru guessed he must be predictable, if the man knew his routine after only 4 days.

He butchered the only Dutch word he knew, 'Thank you', and the heavily bearded guy in the red checkered flannel and what his daughter would call a 'man-bun,' gifted him with a bright sincere smile and nod.

But when he walked the short distance from the hotel to the congress hall along the tidy, narrow, cobbled streets and the charming gabled canal houses with the high windows, colorful floor tiles and steep staircases that housed quaint cafés and delightful owner-runs shops, it hit him so hard he was contemplating to just take the next tram to Amsterdam Centraal, the next train to the airport from there, and fly home, instead of stepping foot into these halls another day.

He didn't, of course. Instead, he stood next to his poster in his allotted time-slot and answered any question directed at him.

That day, he didn't stay for the stuffy discussions after the main keynotes, he basically ran back to his hotel, got nearly run over by several cyclist two times over, because, again, he looked into the wrong direction when crossing the street without consciously reminding himself of the lack of left-hand traffic.

He felt the lump form back in his throat when the screen flickered and Kousagi sat there in her overtly fluffy, overtly pink full-body pajamas, bouncing on his and Usagi's bed, with Usagi trying to hold her phone in a way that he could see all three of them, even when Chibi-Usa had her face buried in her own phone.

"You'll be good for Aunt Setsuna, Haruka and Michiru?" Mamoru asked dutifully, his voice carrying more emotion than he had intended.

Kousagi nodded enthusiastically, even when Chibi-Usa rolled her eyes, lamenting her disagreement.

"I don't understand the fuss," Chibi-Usa whined. "I could stay here, you know? I could look after Kousagi and myself, you know that, right?" Accompanied with the biggest eye roll yet, that he quickly mirrored.

Usagi had the phone last. "I'll see you tomorrow," she'd whispered into the phone with that sweet look in her eyes, and he'd nodded breathlessly and hugged the phone when she'd hung up.

It had been ages since he'd been away from his family even remotely as long as now. It had been even longer since he'd had her just to himself for just a few, precious days.

Since he was scheduled to speak at a symposium later in the day, just before the closing ceremony, he couldn't pick Usagi up from the airport. And she'd assured him – she'd saved the world, she could manage making her way from an airport to a hotel, even if it was in a country she didn't speak the language of.

But, when he returned, heart beating as if he was meeting her for a third or fourth date, having skipped the closing ceremony altogether, she hadn't arrived yet. And when he tried her phone it was switched off. And no matter how much he told himself she'd probably just forgotten to turn off flight mode, he'd started to pace the room, checked down with reception over and over, kept trying to call her, and finally, ran down the steep, steep stairs two at a time in order to get to the airport.

But there she was, and he halted at the bottom of the stairs, just off the large reception hall.

Golden, almost glowing hair moving with her gesticulations, speaking Japanese and broken English in that loud way people raised their voices when their opponent didn't understand them, as if volume made it better, waving her hands, clutching a trolley.

He snorted in reflex, and deflated, relieved, so, so relieved, and caught the handrail as he caught his breath. He watched her, just a moment, and felt that sharp jab of his heart pounding against his chest – the kind he'd forgotten, too, the kind he used to have all the time, in the beginning, whenever he saw her.

He blinked, remained chained to the handrail, watched. The cute way she scrunched up her nose as she couldn't make herself be understood, and the way that blue dress hugged her curves, flowed around those creamy legs and dimpled knees, and had they always been this long?...And the way that bearded flannel coffee guy smiled at her that was both amused and enamored and helpless, and – Mamoru's eyebrows lowered into a glare – definitely checked her out, however subtly.

He shook out of it, at least partly, at least the bit that kept him chained even if not the part that couldn't help but ogle his wife's legs as if he'd never seen them, and started forward, walked up to her, stopped just behind her.

He bent, just slightly, just barely, touched his lips against the shell of her ear, and she jumped as he whispered into it, and he winked at Flannel Guy while he spoke, in a way that must have taken the guy so aback, that was so different from the man the guy had seen these past few, lonely days.

She spun her head up and around, caught his eyes wide-eyed, and he smirked that cocky half smile she so hated, or maybe she didn't, because she blushed in a way she hadn't in a long, long time when he took her hand in his, her trolley in the other, and basically dragged her up the stairs.

She giggled, that high, beautiful sound. Giggled again when he chucked her trolley into a corner of the room, almost blindly, and whirled around and back towards her and had his tongue in her mouth and his hands around her thighs before she could speak another word.

It was silly, almost, the thrill. As if he hadn't seen her in years, not days. As if he didn't know the dress he peeled her out of, didn't know the flush that covered her chest in excitement, didn't know the thin, meshed, see-through lace with the seam that ran right across her nipple that was her fancy underwear, the one she only wore for special occasions, the one that made him hard from 0 to 100 as if he hadn't already been the moment he laid eyes on her tonight.

Instead, he pushed her up into his arms and up against the wall and delighted in the way her squeals turned into moans under his lips, the way she wriggled underneath him and her hands pulled at his tie and pushed at the crisp white fabric of his shirt to get it off as if this was the last time she could ever do it.

"Mamo-chan…" she breathed against his cheek as he pressed his lips and teeth against her neck, the way she liked, the way that made her claw her fingers into his shirt and forget she wanted to push it off.

It was the sweetest sound in the world. It was home. Even 9,282 km away from home. And it drove him wild and even harder, and this time, when she opened her mouth and granted him access, he kissed her so hard she mewled beneath him and bucked her hips against him, and all he could do was push at her skin and her breast clad in this flimsy, sexy piece of barely anything, and her soft, thick bum – the feeling of which beneath the pads of his fingers made him harder still.

And so, when she pushed at his shoulders and he fell backwards on the bed, shirt and tie and still fully clothed as he was against her bra and panties, and her hands slipped into his hair and against his scalp in this way that she knew possessed the power to make him shudder all over, and pressed her lips back to his and her thighs around his middle, pinning him beneath her, he came undone under her, dug his hands into her flesh and opened his mouth to be devoured.

He cried out in hisses and moans and his face contorted, grimacing from the intense longing, that need he hadn't felt in so, so long, yet all of last week, and squeezed the soft flesh at her hips in reflex when she sat up, retreated, just barely, her hands against the bulge in his pants, kneading, slipping to his zipper, but he couldn't have it, and so, with one, strong movement he flipped her around on her back even as she squealed and then shuddered, when his mouth and teeth latched around one puckered nipple under thin, see-through material, and he knew to recognize the way her hands clawed into his shoulders, the way her knees twitched and would have clamped together in her desire had he not wedged one leg between both of hers, and she moved up on it instead, rubbing herself and her panties against the fabric that covered his thigh in a way that made him twitch in his pants and his eyes roll back into his head.

"Mamo-chan…" she mewled again, hips off the bed, and he didn't speak and didn't stop again before he had her chanting that name with her thighs around his shoulders, and first his mouth against the lace and later his tongue against her slit.

And because this wasn't his home, and this weren't his neighbors next door, and their kids were half a world away, he half groaned- half gurgled in protest against her clit when she turned her face away and bit into his pillow to keep from calling out too loudly, because he wanted it all. And when she came, toes curling, head thrashing, back arching and hips pushing off the bed under his lips, and he finally found himself moving in her, moments later, after he had stumbled out of his clothes and fallen over his pants and back into her, and moved, pushed, keened, frantic and fast and out of breath, and she held his face between her hands and whispered, "I missed you, too," he came so hard, and so way too quickly, and howled into her neck as he shuddered it all out.

She giggled, then. That lighthearted sound she'd made so often when they were younger, laid in bed like this without needing to lock the door, and suddenly, Amsterdam was the best place in the world.

Suddenly, he couldn't wait.

He pushed off the bed, slipped the condom off and trashed it, and pulled at her hands and arms to get her up.

"Mamo-chan, what—"

"C'mon," he whispered, a gleam in his eyes, and a shared shower later that felt like the kind he remembered from their late teenage years, he pushed her bra back up her arms, kissed her shoulder as he fasted the clasp, and practically jumped back into his black jeans, grabbed blindly at his array of dress shirts he'd stacked on the dresser, watched transfixed as she lifted those creamy arms and pushed her head back through her dress, still so very bewildered.

"C'mon," he whispered again, and reached for her hand, wrapping his long fingers around her soft, gentle, strong, softer ones, gold band beneath his fingertips.

Suddenly, he couldn't wait to see this city, couldn't wait for the shine in her eyes when _she_ saw this city.

Because suddenly, this city was this magical place where summer nights were not humid but warm and pleasant, where the lights coming from bricked garbled houses and ornate, black, iron street lamps shone across arched little bridges and shimmered, glimmering, glowing, in the water of the canals. Where laughing couples rode bikes across narrow lanes by the endless, sparkling riversides lined with small, picturesque boats.

He held her hand, grasped it tightly as she took it all in, eyes wide in wonder and delight, and they strolled along the moonlit canals with the light dancing in the shimmering, moving water, and bought cheap wine from an overpriced convenience store because she insisted, and a loaf of cheese because these were the Netherlands and she would have protested otherwise, which she later bit into as if it were a sandwich, and it made him snort so hard she glared at him, when they sat down by the water with their feet dangling down into the canal, the play of the light in the water reflecting off their skin, and it felt as if they were ten, twenty years younger and the world was at their fingertips.

And because he was in a country where people didn't give a damn about public displays of affection, and didn't look at you twice if you sat at the canals with your wife buried in a block of cheese, and because he would only have this for three more days, he grabbed what was left of her loaf and threw it into the canal under her loud protests, before he replaced it with his lips and her fingers slipped once more against his scalp in the way that made him shiver so very hard.

He'd forgotten what it felt like to miss her.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few words on why this problem is so, so real: (and it is!) This thrill of the first few months that some of us mourn for the rest of the relationship and ask where it's gone? It made way for comfort, content, emotional stability. The comfortable, deep love that replaces the begging thrill. And it's good it's gone, really - you'd literally suffer from brain damage if that hormonal cocktail held your brain captive like that for a lot longer than it did in that almost manic, first few days, sometimes weeks, maybe even months. But, that being said- that thrill isn't completely lost. We can remind ourselves of it, from time to time. The question at the root of this problem is – how can we want what we already have?
> 
> The struggle is in the debate between known and unknown, routine and exciting, old and new. Thrilling is the new, the spontaneous, the unexpected. Exhilarated laughter together, new challenges, new thrills, a road together that isn't 100% planned out.
> 
> If you look for the old thrill in the same routine for years and years with the same monday night sex where you know what will happen immediately, it's hard to find - not impossible, but harder - and that is very, very normal, and not at all bad. It's beautiful, being so comfortable with another person you know their every move. Nothing is more comforting than that if times are hard for you otherwise, for one.
> 
> But the thrill, it comes when you take it through the mixer and try out something new, you know, once in a while, when you need it. When you give each other time to see each other again in that thrilling way. Be it because you didn't see each other in a little while, or because you see your partner in their element from afar and they are confident and competent and you get to remind yourself that this amazing person over there is yours and yours alone.
> 
> So yes, this is where this is set. In reminding ourselves what we have, reminding what it was like to fall in love for the first time, and what it's like to miss what he have to want it all the more.
> 
> (And yes, you do see a parallel between this sex scene and the make out session in Chapter 13 of Confetti. This is the way that scene would have ended had I finished telling it there ; ) )
> 
> Let me know what you thought, please! (And yes, totally know that commenting on smut is still weird, and you're totally welcome to review anonymously, of course!)


	4. Torment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… I got a lot of anon prompts on my tumblr. Most of them about jealousy, others on having sex anywhere outside the bedroom, from closet-sex to bathtub sex! All in all, if I summarize all these requests, what stood out was that most of them were about depicting sex in a way that's outside of routine, something that brings excitement into sex, and I did my best to warp them all up into something that I felt could work for me, lol. In the process, I tried to depict something where Usagi had a little more agency in sex and got to call the shots, even while working with the prompts I got (and not in her POV.) Mostly because a) someone expressing desire bluntly is very exciting to me and b) because let's face it, girl knows to indulge, and it's what I want to see more in smut, so here I wrote it! I hope you like it, and that all you individual prompt-givers are happy with how this turned out ; )
> 
> And, my always thanks to my beta, Uglygreenjacket, who has to put up with a lot of shit I come up with xD
> 
> Anyway, remember episode 105, in S? It's the one in the mountains, where Mako trains in the mountains and Usagi suggests to join her because Mamoru has a summer job at this Resort Hotel but then totally has no time for her? Yeah that one, the one with the hilarious Daruma Daimon. If you don't, just remember Mamoru had this silly summer job.
> 
> This fic is Post-Stars, set in canon!

Torment

A Short Story in the "Lemon Tree" Series

* * *

 

 

Mamoru didn't even notice the way he wrung the towel, the way he stared. Not until Nakamura nudged him, overladen with plates that wobbled slightly in his grasp that brought Mamoru back immediately.

"You like her?" Nakamura asked, eyebrow lifted in jest.

Mamoru straightened, pursed his lips, didn't answer, and turned instead to take some of Nakamura's pile to carry into the kitchen.

He felt the guy's disappointment, and felt a little bad, immediately. He shared a bunk bed with him, down in the staff rooms, and Nakamura had tried and tried to make friends… but Mamoru wasn't Usagi, and he immediately frowned, thinking if he should answer honestly after all…

But he wasn't here to make friends. He was here to work. And it was good money, even when the shifts went all day and the waiter's uniforms were stiff and unyielding, but it was only six weeks. Six weeks with the summer sun beating down at him and his days filled with carrying kitchenware, but it was good money, and it was worth it.

"Relations with guests are strictly prohibited," Nakamura said, and his voice had turned stiff and tense, and Mamoru sighed. Obviously, he'd not reacted all that well, again.

Mamoru nodded – spared a quick glance over his shoulder.

Usagi did look almost edible in that white swimsuit, lounging at the side of the pool. And he really didn't like the way the other, overwhelmingly male, patrons noticed this, too. Even when he knew she was doing this for him.

Well, not _for_ him, really. More _to_ him.

He glanced over again, and this time, she met his eyes, and smirked that way too confident smile, and went to fold long, naked legs one of the other, and he had to quickly look away.

Work. He was here for work.

* * *

Well, it was a big resort. There was the pool area, the restaurant, the gender-segregated hot springs on the open-air terraces on the top floors, the bar, the breakfast area, the spas. Every one of those places he was technically able to be placed on for any shift, and Usagi couldn't possibly be everywhere where he was, could she? He could avoid her and those eyes.

Turns out, she could. When he had the pool shift, she lay on one of the deck chairs with her legs dangling one over the other and her skin glistening in the sun. When he had the bar shift she was sitting inside, almost translucent beach wear thrown on over her swimsuits that looked more like lingerie than clothing, fingers twirling against her straw or lips closing around it and he _couldn't look_ , he could _not_ look. When he was called up, he'd find her leaning against a wall in the corridors with those eyes looking up at him, and he was beginning to wonder how the heck she did that when he ran into her again.

"Usako," he hissed, when he turned around with a tray filled with cocktails on his forearm, and there she was, lips glistening with her cherry-scented lip balm, stripping off her robe.

Today's swimsuit went straight to his gut, and was what he'd learned to recognize as a Monokini with a V cleavage so deep it went almost to her belly button. It was held together by a simply tied string on her otherwise completely exposed back, and it made his ears ring, and his blood rush to places he really could not hide that well in this uniform.

"What?" she'd replied with that slow, not so innocent smile. "I'm just enjoying the sun."

And she strode to the pool and away from him, and he wasn't the only person looking after her.

"CHIBA!" came the call from one of the deck bar staff. "Chop, chop!"

He jerked out of his frozen state and spilled his first drink upon delivering it.

_"_ _I'll come visit you again," she'd said, running her fingers across his naked chest._

_He'd pursed his lips. "I won't have time for you this time, either, you know that. I'm there to work. It's a very intense six weeks."_

_She shrugged, all the whatever in her soft, naked shoulders. Her eyebrows had lowered in determination, and he'd chuckled, before he left the warmth of her body to step out of his bed, to her grunted protest._

_"_ _I have a goal, you know? I'm willing to put in some work for it to convince you," she'd said, rolling onto her stomach, the soft curve of her naked bum underneath the thin sheets distracting him as he made his way to his drawers, to get some fresh underwear, and clean clothes to wear after his shower._

_"_ _Oh, yeah?" he said, trying not to glance back at her and failing. She'd propped her chin into her hands, looked at him in that way that caused his mouth to go dry._

_Her hair had been spread out across his pillow, and the way she lay there, soft pink skin and golden hair against the white of his sheets, the sunlight filtering through his white curtains bathing her in this soft glow, she looked like an angel._

_"_ _Yeah," she said, the sides of her mouth lifting into the sweetest, most adorable smile, nose wrinkling and eyes shining. "My goal is to fuck you in that crisp and starched waiter outfit at least once."_

_Mamoru stumbled, dropped his clothes, felt the tips of his ears turn pink, immediately._

_"_ _Usa!" He'd admonished. She just looked at him as if she's informed him the weather was nice, not said something all so scandalous._

_She'd booked her room two days later._

As a matter of fact, this was the third time she'd done this to him.

The first time was the summer he'd turned 18, and she 15, and she'd come here pretending it was all for Makoto's training session, when really, she'd missed him, and wanted a date, by which she'd meant stolen kisses at a romantic hotel, forgetting altogether what the word "working" even meant. She'd stayed behind even when the girls had gone their way, and looked at him sullenly from afar while he'd waited on tables that weren't hers.

Once he'd been back home, he'd explained that such things were frowned upon – you didn't bring your girlfriend to work, and that, really, it was distracting.

It was the kind of information he should never have disclosed.

By the time she'd started speaking about his waiter's uniform from 'that summer' with that particular look, and had that glint in her eye when she did, he knew he was fucked.

Of course, it was a couple years until he had the chance to work there again. The summer after that he'd been busy fighting abominable circus creatures, being abducted, and then, well…

It was only the summer after Galaxia, when things had calmed down, and they'd all recovered from the shock, that he'd decided the extra money was worth six weeks of constant labor, and to his surprise, Usagi had not disagreed.

But she'd showed up. Several times. It was the summer that she had turned 17, in her penultimate high school year, and this time, it wasn't stolen kisses that she'd wanted. That summer, she'd gotten him in trouble.

By the time he'd started his first shift this year – one year later, and two weeks ago – the rest of the hotel staff had regarded him either with snickering smiles or avoided eye contact with flushed faces.

Apparently, he had a reputation now. Of making out with guests behind the pool house. Guests that were in swimsuits. Swimsuits that had very flexible fabric one's hands could freely roam beneath.

Guests, obviously, had been singular, and particularly blonde and particularly irresistible, especially when she had such persistent intentions, and he'd been _so_ sure nobody could have seen them there, but turns out the security cameras didn't miss that spot.

He'd been hired again only with very strong admonitions and warnings of 'no third chances'.

But turns out, at 18, this somehow seemed to have turned into his girlfriend's number one sexual fantasy, saying things like, 'but next year we'll live together, and the hotel thing won't be so exciting, then,' with peculiarly intense pouts, and she'd saved up a year to afford a whole week of renting a room in this particular hotel, stocked up on revealing swimwear, and was now obviously out to torture him.

And he'd been fully prepared to stay strong and endure her ogly eyes, again, salivating after him, waiting for him to say the word. At least, that's what it had been like before. And that had already been hard, because six weeks away was nothing he did terribly easily, no matter how it looked on the outside.

But this? This new tactic of hers he couldn't stand, and it was slowly chipping away at every last ounce of self-control he had.

And he had a lot of self-control. Usually.

What he wasn't prepared for was the temptress who had arrived, who had replaced his sweet, puckered-lips girlfriend by sheer determination and conviction, and even when he felt her eyes on him constantly, she was either not looking when he finally turned to catch her eye, or she was looking at him with a mixture of amusement and that knowing smirk he couldn't place at first, until it came to him at night when he stared at the ceiling and wanted nothing more than to sneak out and into her hotel room (305, he'd checked immediately), that it was the kind of look HE regarded her with, usually, and definitely when she'd been here last year, and he'd shown her intentions the cold shoulder for the majority of the time.

Mamoru really didn't like when the tables turned on him.

He'd taken out his phone, typed his message quickly.

 _'_ _You're acting like you think I act, aren't you?'_ he texted.

His phone blinked up the second he'd placed it back by his pillow.

_Usako, 1:03 am.  
Maybe. _

He frowned at the screen, froze when Nakamura moved in his sleep in the bunk bed above him, and then typed his reply.

 _'_ _It's not gonna work,'_ he texted.

He internally listed every argument she could make, and every possible reply for them, until his phone lit up again.

But it wasn't a text this time. It was a photo.

He groaned audibly, clamped his mouth shut when the bunk bed moved and Nakamura growled at him to shut the fuck up.

It was a selfie. Golden hair and pink, naked skin looked irresistible on Room 305's crisp white sheets, too.

* * *

She kept at it. Sat at the pool with her manga and her legs long and exposed and creamy – and at some point, when he was waiting on tables near her, she'd not brushed off the douche of the day that tried to hit on her, and who was shamelessly flirting with her. She wasn't flirting back, mind you. But when Mamoru was called to her side by a loud 'WAITER!', boomed by the guy currently attempting to charm her, he was there in a flash, and she met his eyes with that amused little lingering smile, but didn't _say_ anything, not even when he came back with their drinks and his fingers flexed against hers, when he handed her her sparkling lime-mint quencher with an extra pink umbrella in it, because she smiled a little wider when he did that.

"On the house," he growled, and turned away. He didn't want any random guy paying for her drinks.

He did try to ignore her studiously, though.

It sometimes didn't work all that much.

Like that night she stayed by the pool past nightfall, until his shift was almost done and the kitchen had closed and his job was to wipe everything down and to tip all the chairs against the tables on the pool deck so the cleaners would have an easier time during the night, and when he was done, she was still there.

"I'm about to head in, Usako," he mumbled, his back turned to her.

"Hm," she said, smiling a small, adorable Usagi-smile when he did turn back to her. "What if I want another drink?"

He sighed. "What do you want?"

She cocked her head, surprised. She'd probably expected a little more bickering on his side, but her swimsuit was too dangerous for him to rile her up and stay sane through it.

Instead, her nose wrinkled into the cutest of all smiles, and it turned out to be worse than if he'd riled her up, and why the hell was she doing this to him, anyway.

There were two security cameras just behind his back.

"Milkshake!" she beamed.

He didn't have to ask which one, of course. Just went inside and had it made by the guy currently manning the bar, who looked at him with exasperated eyes saying he'd already cleaned the mixer, and Mamoru pretended to have forgotten that tidbit and made him do it anyway, and put it on his own tab.

When he returned, Usagi was swimming lazy laps in the pool, and floated to her back once he stepped foot on the deck.

He swallowed.

The pool was illuminated from down below and mirrored its ripples all around the area in waving, blue and turquoise and white light across his skin and the glass and the whole deck as he approached, and Usagi in the middle of it in her pale swimsuit for the day that had frigging _cutouts_ on the side looked like she was a frigging goddess in the water, and she _knew_ how he felt about seeing her wet, with her bangs sticking damp against her forehead in small, enticing curls and tiny water droplets glistening in her eyelashes, and he groaned out loud at the strain of his sudden erection against the too tight confinement of his pants.

"Please," he said dumbly, and cursed himself both for the fact that his voice broke when he said it, as well as his side eye at the camera to note that the spot where she swam right now was not in its range.

She inclined her head, smiling that angelic smile of hers, her arms moving softly against the water as she made herself stay afloat and move just slightly closer to him and the edge of the water, and he could not take his eyes off her, standing frozen with her milkshake dumbly raised.

"Can I have my drink?" she said sweetly, and moved one elbow up to the edge of the pool, looking up at him.

He swallowed once more, approaching the side of the pool with a too dry mouth. And when he lowered himself down on one knee to place her glass beside her, she reached up, grasped his shoulder, and pulled him, waiter's uniform and all, into the water.

He fell with a surprised shout that got quickly muffled by the water as he dove beneath the surface, and it took a split second longer than usual for him to float back up, weighted down by soaked formal wear. He gasped when he resurfaced, throwing his head back and pushing his hands into his hair to wipe the wet, long strands back across his scalp as he did, and glared at her cheeky smile and the rippling water glowing ethereal across her skin.

But she was _wet_ , and he'd gone through this torture for _days_ now, and when she got close and whispered her little, "Hi," almost against his lips with that happy shine in her eyes, he suddenly didn't remember why he was even fighting this in the first place. And even when he wasn't the one who started the kiss, he was the one who opened wide and shoved his tongue into her mouth at the same time that he shoved his hands into her wet, glorious hair, and she moaned against his lips and wrapped her thighs tightly against the cummerbund of his silly, stupid waiter's uniform, underwater.

It wasn't long before he had his hands in her swimsuit and groaned into the weightlessness with his boner against her ass.

But then the lights at the side of the deck turned on, and someone talked – the cleaners! And he was all Tuxedo Mask for a second, whisking her out of the water and away before they got seen, by either the cleaning crew _or_ the cameras, and remembered that no, this was really not a good idea, however enticing it might be.

He felt like banging his head in frustration when she slipped from his grasp and went back for her milkshake, slurping noisily through the straw as she greeted the cleaners cheerfully, throwing him a wink into the trees when she hopped back through the glass doors into the hotel.

He'd had some trouble that night to explain to Nakamura why he looked as if he'd taken a shower fully clothed.

And he'd had even more trouble sleeping, the image of her in that pool and her legs around him driving him insane, not to mention that final wink, and it wasn't any better the next day, either. In fact, if he'd had any trouble ignoring her swimsuits the day before, the next day was pure undiluted torture, and instead of ignoring her, he couldn't look away, stumbled into guests, and was so preoccupied one of his superiors ordered him to the dishes in the kitchens, instead.

He went immediately, and the warm water and the soap and the dishes almost managed to calm him down as he cleaned plate after plate and glass after glass for the next hours, but when she passed him by in the corridors in that little white dress after his shift with that look on her face, and brushed, just barely, almost but quite not touching, her hand across his front, he almost whimpered, and obviously then she knew he was still hard and he grit his teeth and she smirked, fucking _smirked_ up at him, and gave him that little twirl before she disappeared into the elevator, beckoning him with one curled index finger.

He didn't follow. He wouldn't let her win this. Even if he might burst up in flames before the week was over.

Yet, that night, when he got more photos from the inside of her room, it took all his willpower to not jump through the overhead window and scale the building, until he could slip through the small balcony attached to hers and fuck her into next week. Her window would be three rooms and three floors to the left, seen from the water pipes along the exterior wall of the west side of the hotel – he hadn't even needed to actively figure that out, it was just something that his mind had done all on its own.

He didn't do it.

The next night, however, it was even worse, the sight of her almost immobilizing him he was pulled so taught. He was so relieved when he got called where she couldn't follow.

"Chiba," Hasegawa, one of his superiors, had yelled across the staff room. "Washoku order for terrace number four!"

He'd exhaled, pushed the metal cart into the service elevator, laden with the smaller boiled, marinated, and pickled side dishes, the plates of sashimi, the steaming iron bowl with the broth, covered with its thick wooden lid, the bowl of rice.

Terrace number four was one of the hot spring areas reserved for men, and serving washoku with all its courses would take about two hours.

He almost dropped the first tray, when he found her naked in the tiled tub, her chin resting on her crossed arms over the rim of it, when he stepped through the curtains, her hair piled atop her head in a single, messy, thick bun, ringlets of hair framing her face that escaped it and curled against her face.

She was illuminated by the nightfall, and the vapor that rose from the scalding water and sat like clouds in the thick, humid air, and he almost choked, because it was the single most enticing sight he'd ever seen.

"This is the men's area, Usako," he groaned.

She shrugged one way too attractive, way too wet, way too naked shoulder at him. "I was a man when I came _in_ here," she said, and at his frown, unlaced one hand from their crossed position, and held up a pink pen topped with a thick, red jewel.

He sighed, puffed his breath into the steamy air, felt his brow pool with sweat from the humidity.

She'll use that transformation pen for _anything_.

"How could you have known it would be me?!" he hissed, and she shrugged again.

Again, with that infuriating smile. "What if I didn't?" she replied, cocking her head.

His eyes widened, and then flashed.

He dropped the first tray of entrés before her on the matte stone tiles and turned to leave with the cart.

"Hey!" Usagi shrieked. "I paid for two hours!"

He set his jaw, studiously looked into her eyes and not the swell of her breasts where it peaked from the surface of the water. "I'm supposed to wait behind the curtain until you're finished with the first course," he growled out. "Or rather, until Murata-san, room 512, is finished with the first course."

"Well, we're not having that," she said, one side of her lips pulling into a half-smile, and he had half a mind to call Minako and yell at her for giving her the kind of advice in looks that could only come from her, because Usagi had never done this before, had never tormented him like this before.

She waved her hand towards the small, ornate, wicker stool at the side of the tiled tub, motioning for him to sit.

"It's not how this works," he ground out, and had to shift, because upon moving, her chest had lifted and one nipple hovered exactly on the surface of the water, erect and stiff and he groaned in frustration.

He looked over his shoulder, checking that no one was here, even when he knew there couldn't be, but just to make sure.

"Well, what if I need more tea?" she asked innocently.

"You're in a hot tub, Usako," he countered.

"Well, I need tea," she said, and he rolled his eyes, but moved to the cart and filled one small, ceramic cup with green tea, and this time, he knew better than to come close to the water, instead, he set it a little farther away from her place with his arm reaching out far, keeping as much distance between them as possible.

She pouted. And as always, that pout did more to him than any sexy smile ever could.

He groaned, throwing his frustrated hands into the air, but settled down onto the wicker stool, and told himself it was only so he could act in case someone came to check on Murata-san that he stayed, and nothing else.

She beamed at him in triumph and leaned over the rim of the tub to pick up her chopsticks.

Tsukino Usagi never ate so slowly, or sensually, as she had that night, and at one point, Mamoru had started fixating on that one crack in the wall studiously and humming to himself in his mind to distract himself from the way it went straight to his groin.

Not that it helped. Usagi had made sure, all week, that his boner was a painful, constant staple while she was here.

"It's not gonna work," he said again, sometime during her third course, and she only hummed the kind of amused, 'Uh huh,' that he usually gave her, and not the other way around.

It was dessert that did him in, or rather, the fact that for it, she suddenly stepped from the water, stark naked, and he nearly fell off his stool when she reached behind him, dripping wet, her warm skin almost glowing against the cooled night air, and peeled the macha ice cream from the small cooler on the cart.

And the way she'd flashed that grin at him, when he'd shuddered as she reached across him, and he'd leant forward, not away.

Usagi had never had any shame or qualms about being naked. She'd saved the world being naked.

But he still became a fumbling, flushed, aroused mess whenever she so unashamedly was. And she was very much aware of that fact.

And so, she sat across from him, nude, ringlets of hair tumbling down her wet skin, flushed from the heat of the tub, and started licking at her little cone, legs crossed one over the other while she was surrounded in thick steam from the hot water, eyes never leaving his, and his pants fucking _hurt_ him, because this was too much.

He sat frozen, eyes at her tongue, the stiff peaks of her nipples, the curve of her hips, the little droplet of water that ran from her collarbone down between the valley of her breasts, and she held his gaze, smirking through his fucking heart attack.

He'd pretty much been there already, but this was exciting in a way that made him painfully hard at a speed that must be entirely unhealthy.

And then the cone was gone, and she still held his gaze, and brought a hand to the messy bun atop her head, and with a flick of her wrist, golden hair tumbled down her back and shoulders and chest and he felt like he needed to scream because how could she use her _hair_ against him.

He crossed his arms, clenched his fists so hard his fingernails were digging painfully into the skin of his palms, held his breath and clenched his eyes shut, in order to keep himself rooted to the spot, because he was not going to let her win this one.

But his eyes flew open in a gasp, when her weight pressed onto his lap, and her eyes were suddenly so close now and her breath puffed against his lips, and he dug his fingers into her bum as if in reflex, groaning pitifully. His groan died and choked, when she snaked her hand into his pants and drew him out, and the air hit hardened skin and glistening, weeping tip and he was about to die.

And then he did fall off the stool, because she got off his knees and onto her own before him, and he did something close to howling, maybe shrieking, maybe crying, when her lips touched the tip of him, and he fell painfully when someone inside and behind the curtains opened the door and asked if he needed anything else.

This time, it had been Usagi who'd reacted faster. She zipped him up, and with a flick of her pen she was dressed and had hopped over the low stone wall and made her way to what he assumed was the women's terraces, and he was left behind to shout across the room in a shaky voice that he was only cleaning up, and that yes, Murata-san had enjoyed the meal very much.

His reputation, however, took another blow that night, because Mamoru returned that night drenched entirely in steam and sweat and with a giant boner that wouldn't go away that Nakamura couldn't help but notice that night in the bunk bed. And hadn't Chiba waited on that older dude from Room 512 all night?

But Mamoru had somehow, along the way, started to stop caring. Instead, he kept frowning at the underside of Nakamura's mattress.

' _You did know it would be me, didn't you?_ ' he texted, a little while later, concerned.

Her reply came immediately.

_Usako, 11:03 pm.  
Of course, I did._

He exhaled in relief.

* * *

The beginning of his downfall was a different run in, in a different corridor, on the next day. It had obviously been planned by her, but he didn't end up caring in the least, because he hadn't seen her all morning, and even though it was simply because she'd decided to sleep in, _not_ having her tormenting him in her swimsuit was even worse than having her tormenting him in her swimsuit.

He didn't even put up a fight this time. Instead, when her lips connected with his before either of them had even said as much as a hushed greeting, and her teeth pulled on his lower lip in that way he _knew_ she knew drove him wild, he jabbed his elbow against the handle of the nearest door and pulled her into the supply cabinet before anyone could see, and pushed his hands into the cheap hotel yukata which she wore absolutely _nothing_ beneath, and his lips and teeth against her neck, and had her keening even way before he'd grasped one nipple between his thumb and index finger, the one that had taunted him so last night in the water, rolling it until she trembled and arched her neck even further.

He could feel the smug victory in her every push and pull, in the way one of her hands clawed into his hair and the other into his crisp, stuffy shirt and pulled him closer, even when he pressed her back against the door and wedged his leg into her yukata and in between her thighs, as he kissed the side of her face, her neck, her mouth, her shoulders, her arms in open-mouthed, frantic kisses.

And when she bucked against his leg, moving against the expensive, black trousers of his waiter's uniform in erratic movements and with those almost desperate, mewling little moans of hers, the kind she only ever made when she was as turned on as he currently felt, he didn't even remember what the problem with this situation ever was, and she got him. One hand at the back of her neck as he crushed his lips to hers, his other hand was already fumbling with his zipper, to the low, triumphant 'Yesss', that she hissed almost soundlessly right into his ear.

... And then the door opened forcefully and his ears turned red and he fell, clutching at her so she fell on top of him and he could both cushion her fall and hide the open front of her yukata from view - and his colleague's face – one of the youngest ones, from the room next to his – flushed a deep crimson and he mumbled and apologized.

But Mamoru saw the wide-eyed, lingering look at him as his hands flew to fix his fly, before the boy scurried off.

That's it, he'll lose his job.

…And yet, somehow, it turned even worse, because his colleague didn't snitch, instead, by the time he'd gotten midway through his shift, the rumor went around that Chiba Mamoru fucks guests in the utility closet, and doesn't he have a girlfriend at home? And Usagi fucking GLOATED in it.

It was, however, the same night that he broke. If they were all saying it, anyway, well then… Plus, he wasn't going to get a third chance anyway. Boss had said that already. And fuck that money.

He didn't even try to change out of his work wardrobe. After all, his girlfriend had announced she wanted to fuck him in it, and who was he to deny her?

And so, after one particularly racy sneer by one of his colleagues, he simply walked off.

He could see the blushing glances of his colleagues, when he walked into the guest elevator where he didn't belong, instead of into the basement where the staff rooming was located, pushed the elevator to the third floor of the guest rooms, and this time, didn't even blush. Walked down the corridor and knocked on the door.

Her smirk was still gloating, when she opened.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I call this one: Sexual Frustration: The Fic ; ) And, yes, I'm totally mean ending it there xD
> 
> And, because consent is important to me, and this is exactly my real life line of work, a note on it: There is a fine line between sexy coaxing and coercion, and I tried to walk it while staying on the positive side of it. What Usagi tried to do here was chip away at his inhibitions, mostly by tempting him, but at no time did she try to force sexual desire or willingness in him that wasn't already there. It was the context for him, not the desire – he was a big walking boner of willingness, just, y'know, didn't wanna lose his job for it. And while this side of coaxing can be very thrilling between two people, it's always important to make sure both partners are sexually consenting while this happens ; )
> 
> And now I leave you to imagine what happened after that door closed behind them, and I hope you had only half as much fun reading this as I had writing it ; ) Please let me know what you thought! (And if you're uncomfortable commenting on smut, there is the anonymous guest review option ; ) ) You'll make my day in reviews!

**Author's Note:**

> So, why this story?
> 
> I ranted on tumblr a while ago, how much I dislike it when Usagi is portrayed as sexually shy or timid. Because in my opinion, Usagi wouldn't be. This is a girl who knows to unapologetically indulge in the things that bring her joy. The girl who eats and sleeps with wanton, who falls asleep drooling over romantic and saucy shoujo manga. She would not be sorry about it – or shy or timid.
> 
> The person who would be timid and shy, though, in my opinion, is Mamoru.
> 
> Mamoru is an orphan, who has never known any sort of intimacy, who has even learned – through his abilities as an empath – to be wary of touch of all kind. Someone who has learned to shut it all out. Mamoru, not Usagi, would have a harder time to know what he wants, when he's ready for or not, and to identify his own sexual awakening, or much less handle it. (Not to mention the little tidbit in canon, even, that his subconscious his future self is literally terrifying him with dreams of all the bad things that will happen to Usagi should he touch her. Just sayin.)
> 
> Anyway. Gender stereotypes have influenced a lot of how those two have been written in regards to sexuality or sexual prowess, if you will (in canon, as well), so… this story is aimed at that. This is Mamoru's sexual awakening, and his internal struggle.
> 
> Consent is definitely a big theme in this story, just note that obviously, consent is especially especially especially important in situations where it's not apparent if your partner is ready; and that it's not gender specific who has to give it and who has to ask. Normally, in stories with heterosexual pairings like this one, we portray consent as the guy checking in with the girl. But obviously, that can and needs to go the other way around when it's the girl making the first steps and the boy who's unsure. So, yeah, here it's she who has to tune and check in, and he who needs to be looked after. Of course, both parties need to look after each other, but foremost it's the one with the sexual agency, the one who's running the show and starting this jig, who has to make sure everything is still wanted. And as I said – I see Usagi as the one with the sexual agency in this relationship, at least in the beginning.
> 
> So yeah, granted, this little story passes the mark of "timid and shy" by a great ordeal, but, still fits him better, imo, than 'Mamoru The Porn Star', like we sometimes see him portrayed, anyway, no?
> 
> So, anyway. I know giving feedback on a smutty story can be really weird. But I would still love to know what you think of this, and the overall series, and which themes you'd like to see me work through, and so here's a little reminder that FF allows you to review anonymously, if you don't want you name on smutty fanfiction!


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